handing out apples from the garden of eden

trashed, torn and twisted

neither drafted or enlisted

i mix memories with a double lime

lost in language where nothing rhymes

 

if coping is an art form

i’m still learning to finger paint

i dance the quiet caution

of a self-conscious saint

 

yes i’m numb, void and wasted

in case there was any question

it’s the only reprieve i’ve tasted

though i’ve heeded many suggestions

 

my mother’s echoes bear down hard

“you serve less purpose than this lard”

castrated by her maternal moves

till i kill her with a mellow groove

 

and tomorrow amid the turmoil

i’ll hoe my row like a company man

i’ll coil around the toil

like i live to be the best i can

 

i’ll deceive by being in the proper place

at the proper time

bow my head when they say grace

and bury it in a rhyme

 

and no one will know i can’t handle

burning both ends of the candle

except for God, my dealer and me

and the clerk who checks my i.d.

 

and this is a frozen poem

reaching no resolution

tossed like a wishing coin

in my pond purified by pollution

 

***