It was somewhere in the middle of a dream, that the
truancy of cycles, brought me to truth. The truth about the hallways of my
childhood home and how many strangers I watched, through the cracks of eyes and
wood, reflected on my father’s portal, strutting and sniffing out the young
pussy, door by door, until they reached mine. The truth about that Spring, and
the one after. Days by the ocean don’t wash away nights at the sheets. The
feeling of freedom only survives in-between the right beats. I have built communities
inside of many men, not just a fireplace, a rug and a bathtub, but functioning
give and takes, befriending the liver, the heart, and coasting the veins. I do
not have any luxury but this. I use my hands, and my mouth and my spit because
I am hollow. There is nothing tangible about me. There never has been, and
there never will be. I am shades, memories of cherry blossom and bleeding nails
on white paint, grass too long to mow, and now, truth. All this, ideas too sweet to stop sucking from, or at least, that's what they say, meager excuses. The truancy of cycles
folded into the absence of cycles. There was no blood until that’s all there
was. Ticking robots probed at me, told me what was safe to eat, and breathe –
and that maybe someday – I wouldn’t.
It
was somewhere in the absence of cycles, in the ending of a dream, that I was
brought to truth. The truth that desensitization is the foundation of our
progression, and in acceptance of that, we have educated ourselves uneducated.
The apple slices I slip onto my tongue are that of a fairy tale, sending me
into government sponsored, sheep-like coma. The truths that my children will
not be mine unless I run from here – or, endure the custody battle with
society, and there’s no way to win such a thing. I have none of their green.
But I can find my own. I can build communities on a rock, in the middle of the
ocean, with my hands, my mouth and spit. I could raise Sebastian there. The
nightmares would probably go away, there.
I’ve
pushed it, yet, the distance between the truth and eye, is not one inch more
than it rains each year. These anomalous days, s t r e t c h it all, but I’ll be here, a grey faced
cavalier.