MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 22)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about determinism, rape, forest fires, seeds, drug addicts, toddlers, hiking, the silver-lining of exploitation, waterlogged corpses, secondhand existence, ketamine
taking out on your child the rape that made him dried corn raised in the palm to the blind mule’s senile lips of tactile quivering wishing for the luxury of being exploited hypnotic allures of elsewhere eclipsed the familiar land and custom, the girl next door seeing no point in school when you will remain repulsive in your disfigurement both slipping down the cliff, she lunges— blind passion birthing a new world—for her freebase pipe: empty, unlike her toddler’s eyes those spurts of nonresponse to his DMs here and there over the years made him love her all the more: he figured they meant she had a man and was enough of a catch to honor the boundaries even of a passerby from under the forest char, seed meat cracks through the fireproof hulls up toward our nearest star hoarded kernels of her prior selves blocked transfiguration ignorance fosters so much fecundity little faith in the mosquito net down that special-k hole overlapping dialogue daddy’s big girl wishes she was not exaggerated genitalia—but in real life, right at your mouth (stank) reluctant to give up possessions, objects entangled in your identity, in fear of facing the absence of excuse for keeping the rest ancient memories of prenatal ecosystems, now under parking lots, pulse (too faintly) through the face-paint pigments of cosplay art that finally shows a people its own native landscape chiseled free of encrustations from afar it is pure delusion: thinking we could ever transcend secondhand existence, muster a difference-in-kind leap into some “reality” behind theatrical stages, when every fact about us—genes, thoughts, deeds—comes from beyond us a brave love shows itself in your concern about how you might better learn to love the infant whose face calls up the trauma waterlogged toes peeling away to nubs bleeding more moisture into the jungle boots gender queers scoffing at age queers gender queers scoffing at race queers expecting those barely making it through the world to change it death is no point of view cured by ceremony baby humans like baby goats face-butt breasts to make milk flow faster another burden to handle staved off some gossip in a Christian community a brief second—and through mind power alone (no outside triggers)—having the smell experience, decades forgotten, of your grade-school hallway guilt-trip manipulation runs deep enough that the toddler, aware of putting its life at risk, wails despite Mom now addressing its needs knowledge hygiene has doctors hold back unsettling prophesies revealed by genetic sequencing
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.