—I STARE DIRECTLY IN THE SUN, BUT NEVER IN THE MIRROR

 

 

Trash Boy Language

 

     for Said Shaiye

 

 

my relationship 

with language 

is complicated 

askew and always

leaning burlesque

like mother-son juju

like fight-or-flight juju

like leather-on-skin 

shrieking and squealing

in a squalid bathroom

nowhere-to-run bad juju

this-is-your-Ma after all

bad juju

when you’re baby-soft

and white trash 

no one’s listening 

it’s just another 

bloody avalanche 

shooting bone marrow 

hieroglyphics across the floor

and so after a while 

the days stopped speaking 

and the nights did too 

the months weeks 

and young years

so me age nine 

little trash pimp 

that I was 

I grew futile 

grew a third thumb

third middle finger

grew numb

grew a forked tongue

a second harden skull 

and I did what a 

trash boy does when 

there’s nothing left

I taught the rocks 

and boulders how to sing 

broke off a branch 

and swung that 

motherfucker everywhere 

like a batshit conductor

I led every living thing to 

their hooved feet 

during the climax 

and crescendo

well past my sacred 

poached-puberty

I made them 

play that symphony 

on repeat like 

a mantra or curse 

over and over until 

the sound buckled both 

the treetops and heaven  

when I knew for certain 

that I was alive

and not dead

that I at least 

meant something

to someone 

or something

somewhere