32.

The colors of the son

here i come
found
Checked into the lemon-glow motel
where the brain invents dangerous streets
In order to bleed in the sheets of locked
rooms.
i have a little trick here
no one’s ever seen:
where i quietly grind these bones
to fine powder
with a bowl and pestle
and dust my childhood with burning lime
to preserve the memory of departing innocence.
It doesn’t matter
that i’m in the dark
the emotional eclipse of a sunny afternoon
among the privacies that change me from
stranger to breakable shadow.
It’s alright the scattered eloquence of my lies
has left me dressed in a suit that doesn’t fit
for a funeral
with no consonants or vowels -
only the dirty grunts of my god fearing
family.
please.
Somebody needs to feed my lips with
instant words
so that i can explain away my faulty life
to all the blood kin
i have let down
while they nod and sip gun powder tea
in the lemon-glow motel lobby
with boiled water from my fallen tears.
i will be home soon
probably by a Friday
like the good son
a success
a loyal scrapbook dressed
for memories
with nothing left to say except
who knows why.