Thursday, August 20, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 1, Draft #1

A sample of austere efficiency,
copper brown but mixed with black.
Memory of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
In need of something, of what? Of what was I certain?

Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly to look upon.
The price of adolescents, the eternal search for cool.

Black is a pit in my stomach, a constant ache
or fear of being called out, being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.

We grow out of this, so some say,
we grow older but memory
imperfect though it may be,
keeps thoughts and feelings alive
as embers snug in cow dung.

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