Her Genius

We are all our own genius

aren’t we? Self-help tells us

to be selfless while the world

tells us to be tough

slowly, gradually

like a surgeon’s steel

picking apart pieces

of our sanity like a game

of Operation. We are all

children at heart, aren’t we?

When our nose’s glow red

and hairs stand on end

while our souls ignite like kerosene

flailing our arms in ecstasy

remembering the truth which

from birth was wiped clean

like a board of chalk.

We’re always trying to get that

message back, that message which

in a world or man and steel and greed

can only exist as long as love at first sight

where in the morning she lay

soundlessly asleep bound to no one

her genius in my memory forever.

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hands of men

there will always be

enough hands

to lift a boulder

or make a mess

but may there never be

enough, hands of men

to gently raise

a child

The reason our parents told us not to worry about the mail.

So

here’s the thing.

You’ve got two options.

Either succumb to the pressure

or roll with the punches.

Take note, being an adult

means a diet of eating shit,

and just when you’re ahead,

another bill arrives,

a parking ticket

a meter reading

a doctor visit that’s killing you.

Just spare us

the headache

and chew

with your

mouth closed.

Because we all have our own plate to eat.

No one is asking for seconds.

Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.

We are what we make ourselves.

Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.

There is no difference.

If it sells, it sells.

And the more grotesque, the better.

Greater pain equals greater possibilities.

Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.

It has and will always be.

The grand illusion.

Story time before the big sleep.

You see,

faith can be a very clumsy thing.

A very scary thing.

But it doesn’t make a difference either way.

Prophets will stay prophets.

Martyrs will stay martyrs.

And fools remain fools.

How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?

It doesn’t.

But it sells, so it sells.

Eventually,

you get it.

We were the monsters lurking under the bed.

A working hypothesis.

Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.

“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”

And I recognize that voice.

That voice is not my own.

It’s deep and fearful.

Hoarse and irrational.

It is the voice of an angry man.

It is the voice of my father.

Then there is silence.

A long insecure silence.

A fearful silence.

And I recognize that silence.

I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.

Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Only now it is my voice.

It is mild and tame.

Concerned and rational.

It is the voice of a scared child.

It is the voice of a worried man.

And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.

Please for the love of all that is holy.

Believe me.  Believe me.  Believe me.

Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”

It’s my fault.

Not yours.

And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.

Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.

It’s a working hypothesis.