MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 28)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about cornrow itching, holy smoke, poop paintings, victims of superstar rape, refugees, terminal illness, baby oil, testicle funk, ass-cheek boils in Trinidad
thoughts fed by the moon there is always beauty, even in what depresses us most worth increased with every oppression box of intersectionality ticked bible paper joints artwork vandals fecal frescoes on the walls of solitary death at different income levels nausea in the teen, a self-rocking need for bath and home and mom, after the sex symbol—shoulder to shoulder with tour-bus buddies—tested the truth of her hysteria knocking middle knuckles on a durag head of cornrows, only really teasing the itch your genes and upbringing, these alone fail to excuse your action—but what does not is the entirety of reality prior to your action to ensure that customers and staff think alike while looking diverse and to protect “vulnerable identities” from ever being unsettled (even by expert fact): the core mission of higher education today drowned refugees left piled on rafts in the ocean sun as if to deter new waves spouses falling out of love as they transform in a fight against terminal illness denying privilege by pointing out, say, the rust on your items of privilege toothpick in mouth, blowout comb in afro— functional, stylistic we are made stranger here by becoming less stranger to ourselves barred from the crucial intel of who to watch out for in an anti-free-speech environment of punishment for saying whatever might be perceived as an insult since doctors profit from sickness, what would happen if hospitals operated as for-profit businesses? the days of baby-oil sunbathing not telling your therapist a loved one died too young to be self-conscious about the disfigurement sharing what the cat brings to the doorstep with the cat a land where people mistrust experts because experts have been proven wrong before designers who consider home decor key to grasping a person’s character—how do they frame their role in our lives? the aromatic kinship between a plume of vernal flowering wafted up and that of fertile balls after a run refusing to sell the man a loaf of bread because he plans to give it to the boy outside, sunken at your storefront smart people intrigued by hate groups and quack-science— Holocaust-AIDS-moon-landing deniers—because they fuel our deep-down faith that man cannot make it alley opening at 2am off Sixth street in Austin: girl throwing up and guy walking away saying, “I was the one who was fucked up, huh?” earth down below and sky up above is a convention the stream’s trickle is said to cure the vacancy of the woods as if the trees themselves could not the polygraph becomes a friend when your disguise begins to deceive you as well anti-rural bias flourishes because employers can read the twang as incompetence now that she is in the clear, somehow it is hard to reconnect with the child for whose death you had prepared shirtless men digging their backs into wall corners gum flesh receding from the teeth sad, for all your millions bank withdrawals for Armageddon barkeepers are the wisdom of the restaurant the temptation to aim to be understood destroying most of his own early work a bird in a cage hanging on a porch among free birds standards of foulness lowered before sniffing the only pants that go with the blouse panties left behind under the hotel sheet at the foot of the bed employee explanations while the boss hovers nearby: adrenaline words voiced as if his presence is no matter gathering her girl cousins to a back room in Sangre Grande for the mega boil on her ass
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.
Photo: gq.com/story/r-kelly-confessions