The car is dead.
Arrange a ticket out
before the rearrangement of
physicalities incline to take on
the rhetoric that passes
for how we communicate.
It’s not a new story,
it’s a revelation,
beaten out of silence
now that the complacence of denial
has been jarred awake by freedom
gone that suffered to be gained.
In one bed lay the rebel one
who’s told not to retort with
attitude, though attitude
blocks out all visage
of a question mark in what
the current voice implicates.
From the couch I have to call
my bed, I think I could defend one
or the other, and map out
a power balance for myself.
But, as the shy, submissive, fearful one,
a stand from me incurs the role of ingrate.
I used to turn to grandparents
for the calming element,
the equilibrium in light of what some parents
signature their disposition with.
They call it tough love, the catapult to heist
you over their contrite social standing.
The tragedy is not deciphered
in the blinding light of nature’s death beacon,
it is in the sight restored to the
emotional monopoly of those who live
with the embodiment of a mistake
and claim to be the experts on its handling.
The nurturing returns ad nauseum
to balance out berating, but it never
ceases to return beneath apologetic hints.
And after many years I’m weary
from the system of forgiveness under
corresponding loaded tongue.
The cost of freedom
sent me back into this ‘Wilde’ gaol,
where all love each other but are not prevented
from not liking them, and so
they’re driven on to hurting when they’re puzzled
by the lack of harmony.
I wait now for one to acknowledge that
this tank is empty, and the body work
no longer will conceal a dead engine.
As the quiet fearful one,
it won’t be me.
(An older piece, from 2004, when things were not so good)
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