MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 5)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about war, fratricide, bed bugs, methadone, kangaroo courts, political correctness, outrage culture, tuning into our own constant micro-movements, protests, Trump
family picture with a hole in it that we do not read fiction shows: we shame and shun creators for their characters! hooker for a prison going-away party, but unable to perform memories vulnerable with the death of the co-witness addicted to what is easy to cook up at home having to explain our bad moods sun-bleached rib cage transient bunkmates after chess murmur into the black about how impossible it all is: how, once they cross tomorrow’s border, duty compels them to kill one another sometimes the slogans predicating fratricide root not in sand-stable ideologies imposed upon young minds, but even in ruthful hearts even if God expires in our hearts with his terminal isolation, we still remain right for him (since we are but his modes) blubbery rumps bed bugs carried to school from the homeless shelter next to the methadone clinic sworn to institutes that numb the prick of the soul’s compass needle renewed touch tearing away the scabs of once-new identity, exactly as feared programmed assassins in forced marches toward doom everyone playacting for everyone not wanting the child to forget how it was when the family was one believing you had the teacher fooled, helping her clean up after school each day to prolong time away from the homeless shelter of lice confident in its imminence despite one’s very holy book insisting that no one knows the date or the hour—to this, sophisticated predictors respond, “I know at least the month!” do not be so quick to damn these hirelings: were we steeped equally in shadow— groomed by overseers dispensing half-truths, shuffled onto the stage clutching incomplete scripts—what doom march might we feel disgraceful to oppose? the symmetry of pure chaos a gun-toting Texan’s cure for intractable tinnitus irretrievable riches winked out with each extinguished flame we continue to weave words, knowing it will not bring back the one woven through us another light vanished whose shining secretly mapped our heavens it is at our fingertips, but we are restless for distraction: just sitting there, we are ever at least on the micro move (as some are shocked to learn for the first time on weed) doctors compelled to tell it bluntly so that even you cannot mistake it for some other information seeking donations for a funeral instead of using your own backyard and the elbow-grease of love and respect couples bickering lifelong: either joy is not the only salvation or joy is more encompassing than we think “Quing,” a gender-neutral combination of “queen" and “king”— invented in a campus safe-space club (even though there already was “monarch,” “sovereign,” “ruler,” “regent,” “majesty,” and “crown”)
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 2017 portion of that five-part work.
