Monday, May 16, 2005


So who cares if you ran away from home. If you sold drugs in high school,
Or distributed them through FedEx?
Who cares what your friends stole from Diedres' apartment.
If you slept with Jose Accuna, Phil Chang or K*** S***?
Or if Uncle John felt you up
When you were less than six and gave
You a horrible infection? (i saw him)
Or some strange black boy
Licked your privates in the shower when you were eight or nine?
Who cares if you told every one.
If you made a practice of telling.
If you abused your self
To the point of disease and miscarriage.

If you found some man who loves you that is all that matters. That you have daughters.
That you sand the floors with your birthmother and declare Margaret Wheeler unloving Incompetent and forgetful.

You beatify yourself.

And I am your shadow brother
Animus that stinks of murder.
Buried his own child or someone else's doesn't mater
Still the same
Paints with lots of red.
Splatters. the paint.
That means Blood.
And all my friends and family
Seem like senators
Cloaked, daggers glinting darkly
As they close around me in the Agora.
No wonder that I'm phobic.
We children were paraded
before the wealthy relatives the softies.
The promised trusts and escrow accounts were made before the blame
The horror of the drugs.
The glass of wine with dinner.
The reefer passed at a concert.
Who made out?
Who accused?
Am I the killer of a child named Owen?
If so then who killed Me?

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