Thursday, November 15, 2012

Off Ocean Avenue

Something was always wrong
And there were never any words:


For the attitude of the older boys as we sat on the new roof eating blue
Bugs Bunny popsicles;
For the manner Spider used, when he said to calming cops “my name is
George” a hundred times “and I didn’t do nothing”;
For the way it felt when the kindly therapist stepped outside and I was
bludgeoned by his foam-cased sticks of death;
For the laugh I heard when I caught crabs with my fingers just to watch
my teacher crush them underneath the launch ramp wheels;
For the confusion trying to right itself when I saw the bag of weed on the
babysitter’s bureau, where the magical records were kept…

The poison judgment started there...

Because I had no words for it
My spirit went to sleep
(A victim has no mouth, but always sees) —
The only thing to say, the tyrant speaks.

Still there are no words inside:

The way the wrong turned right
— The church was mocked and spat upon,
Its teachings things to shame —
What strange and quivering buoy
Stays floating in that cove,
Where sentinels sing pain not prophecy?

1 comment:

Jack said...

I remember that feeling of "off-ness," where something inside you screams for a definition or a guide.

I love the details in this, and the connection of a small world to a universal concept.