Thats it

thatd make a mother proud

put spring again in an old mans step

he walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to the mudroom to take a piss

                                                                                                                  howd that work

deep sink  yah

but he could have gone up the hall to the kitchen if he wanted to piss in a sink

hell  for that matter there was a castiron sink and washboard behind the garage he could piss in

or slip a loose plank in the gray weathered fence behind the garage and go into the vacant field beyond

a broken ornate stone cistern was there  it might enjoy a refreshing splash

it was all that remained from a fire years ago

the houses charred remains were bulldozed into its cellar and what didnt fit were spread across the large property

on rare hot days a smoke scent emanated from the ground

the family quit trying to sell the property  

their deranged son who started the fire in the livingroom died there

upstairs  his younger brother and sister died there

                                                                                   wherever it was  he thought he was going

or maybe like him

a slip of the mind

at crossed purposes

distracted by quivering shadows moving across the walls of his skull without actors or props to cast them

or a pinhole camera working off the light shining in through his eyes

he did something he wouldnt normally do

became untethered

and once begun there was no taking it back

he stood framed in the mudrooms doorway strangely tempted

nobody would know

but thats not the point 

or ever the point

hed know

not conscience  or guilt

his 

you didnt piss in a sink

thats when you dont do things

not coerced  thought you might be seen 

so you didnt

the twist was as he saw it  some people wanted others to know what theyve done

eventually  theyll say 

or hint elaborately at it

they say or commit suicide  

disregarding the innocence of others

1423,  Saturday,  12  7. 14

--   Nah deyaintneberseedisbukagin           

                                                                               he didnt wipe the spittle from his lips

and chin

                 I followed his angst and violation

nothing like it was taught to us when we were school                                                                                                             

suppose Curriculum circled its wagons long before we descended and excised those parts 
it deemed unpalatable
never mind the reportage was honest or true                                                                                                 

Curriculum nixed that victors make rules    slayers make rules                                                                                                    

                                                                                                         thats the Rule                                                                                                                                                                                                        

the buk  -  as he snarled  -  was Fear Itself

he read me a passage from it                                                                                                    

                                                  the hackles on his neck and back twisted into spines

his fingers hooked like talons and it

almost fell from his hands

 

                                             “. . . one drop of Negro blood placed in the veins of the purest Caucasian destroys the inventive genius of his mind and strikes palsied his 

creative faculty . . . ”

                                                                                    

he topped it off with this red cherry

from out the mouth of Mississippi Senator Theodore G. Bilbo

“. . . the difference in the intellect, in the brain, in the mind (between blacks and whites, making) the white man throughout all time . . . the superior race, the ruling race, the race of creating power, the race of art, the race of literature, the race of music that moves the soul”

                                                                                                                           it hung in the air 

for a long time between us 

                                           before he looked up from the page   glaring

if we werent friends

I would have thought he was glaring at my white skin

               

--   The race of music that moves the soul . . . Really          

                                                                                          he laughed abruptly

Ya muthafuckers struggle to dance

--   And you cant swim for your life

                                                                                   we both bursted into laughter

almost to tears

                                                                                Yah deyaintneberseedisbukagin

                                                                  No  it wasnt hard to see from then on hed grip that hardbound buk in his hands  finger it  run chapter and verse out of it as deftly as he spoke 

from Gospel                                                                                                                                                                  from the tattered black leather Bible  the only thing his old man left him 

when he died 

  

                           it went everywhere he did 

now it had a companion                          

  

2204,  Friday,  11  7. 14