Recapturing Childhood Realities

                                        A family picture framed in calico living-room intervals; plastered to hollow ply-wood: collecting adoration while mounting an narrow staircase (the portrait froze an artificial moment on a non-existent timeline; your loved ones younger in their years). In southern Philadelphia corridors, evening hours dwindle delicately to dusk- dimly lit city street corners perpetually breathe in stale night air; fluctuating through noon-day seasons. Dry summer playgrounds of steel swelter infernally through morbid afternoon inflection, pigeon-peasantry and chlorine contaminated swimming-pools. Private grade school tuition; familiar childlike pageantry of holiday insinuation. The daytime schoolyard penetrates warm flesh-like pores thrice over, Italian mafia eulogies spread fervently throughout neighborhood front-door stoop vestibules.
                                       I mentally fornicated with distant bloodline relatives loosely over decades of rambunctious anecdotes and frugal baked-goods; twelve-year old burgundy marketed in cheap glass handled jugs. I rented a room deep within the hearth of salami and steak Stromboli central; the subway circuit sweeps through underground channels of uncouthly garbage and loose cellophane cigarette marketing.
                                      Miserably drunken over unkempt years of toxic sprees, overlapped between soul-soup-kitchen pilgrimages and Schuylkill river sponge-bath upheavals; the homeless are home-bound tonight to counterfeit warmth permeating up through metal sewer drains; aloft in an starless night-sky of native misconception. The locals solemnly make promises and misplace them with their card-plastic finances along midnight taxi promenades, returning lucidly home from center-city sojourns off the Roosevelt Boulevard; all lit up for anyone beside the awful tourists who Ride The Ducks and stay in five-star hotels lucratively betwixt Broad and Market.
                                  Someone forgot to count the minutes it takes to lose your youth, sell your primordial soul to the black market for a couple grand; reflect on your misconstrued principles, priorities, and mortality.

                                       (You cannot take "it" with you when you die)

                                 For years I wanted to die; and in a completely selfish way, I miss the freedom in living that way: in thinking that I had nothing to lose.

                                  A woman with soft limbs at her side; once a mother. Angelic features amid an heavenly visage. Darkened in bedroom pallor; she stretched scarlet bedsheets undauntedly with dainty feet; (she awoke from an long Winter nap) as an church bell pealed 5:30 P.M. from an remote courtyard, I made it known her reality in cold and doleful recapturing, "dear our children are dead, now remember your children are dead now"

A Millennium Discourse

                                    Time and time again we fooled ourselves into thinking everything was alright; that events would unfold smoothly. Our future livelihoods would be mapped out with firm interest, adolescent passion and perpetual curiosity. Unknowingly beaten into bleak submission; dark crevices remained in dark residential corners of urban basement laundry-rooms. Who paid the utility bill in the beginning? Who put in the dreaded leg-work? Occasional sidewalk strolls down cemented pathways, sauntering adamantly home from corner delicatessens
                                            on maple evenings in Autumn.
                           The sky bled red and grey patterns from a windswept stratosphere. Five 'o clock family-dinner sorrow
           coming down,
                   back home on planet earth;
                        wearisome and fatigued amongst daily routines. Teenage stigma beat me into an bloody pulp; carried me absent-minded into my thirties.
                                   In earlier days we anticipated this time-period in radiant premonition of ethereal tapestries, spread out against faded living room ceiling cornices; pillared July windows haunted youthful imagination amid sullen yesterdays of expired vaccinations. Withered oak-tree firmaments enveloped an hollow backyard perimeter; where in sweltering summer myriad swarms of lake flies hovered in and out torn screen window openings
                    into suburban bedroom translucency
                            Decade old window air-conditioner units dripped tepid moisture into second story gutter drainpipes.
                               Relationships took time to work through; always did and always will. We still won't sacrifice any effort. A warm day in January; post-Xmas depression: the nation's suicide rate sky-rocketed to it's annual zenith; as it usually does this time of year. Siblings quarrel throughout pensive Saturday playground upheavals, aside early afternoon river embankments. Family-trees adorned in maladjusted boredom along tenuous state-lines of domesticated incest. Queer feelings arose while recapturing blackout incidents among timorous pastimes; shamed intervals of deceitful words derived from drunken hearths of indignant vanity.
                       
                       (Things said and done cannot be taken back; cannot be repaid in deliberate apologetics.)
                              
                      Do not feed us euphoric horse tranquilizers beside bucolic pastures filled with brazen livestock foliage. Do not take me out past phosphorescent city limits to watch remote lights flicker from an nocturnal skyline. I will not make-out with you on the baby-blue hood of your '96 Cadillac below incoming commercial airliners. You do not have to buy the latest perfume and spread it all over your pale body; I want to taste the real thing. Want to walk you home as our breathing diminishes to seething shadows along  wintry forest floors, carpeted in moonlit boughs and swaying cypress branches; evening village streetlamps illumined dusk-tree silhouetted outlines. Streetcars solemnly rasped past wary pedestrians in modern syllables.

                  (Fashion died and was never to be born-again; someone decided that it wasn't, then everyone followed.)
                        A dead man in his early twenties currently visits me amongst putrid morning hours, terrestrial communion through my chamber window; snowy sleep and florid moments aside neighborhood radiators; he hasn't a corporeal anatomy to touch, though he lost not his head; he counsels me beyond his humanly years and conception; sexual immorality wasn't his motto; no lies frequent his limited vocabulary; he knows tempestuous gusts of wind coming in off the vast Atlantic perimeter
                                                               below crescent moon cycles of Mayan descent;
                                      we believed their millennium old lies
                                          below the fallen rain that collects in muddy pools
                                                 throughout cemetery parking-lots;
                                  smash me in the face with your clenched fist,
                                                    then weep
                                                     like embryonic children
                                                                    crying out to
                                                                       primeval dungeon deities.

Reflections (Vol 2)

                                   All was said and done in the Autumn
                                        on the second story landing of an
                                           roach-infested apartment building.
                              A three-o-clock sun infernally made its way through
                                              doleful damasks of antipathetic cloud formation
                                               radiantly interwoven anon eternity's entirety
                                                      (celestial magnitude)
                                   How carnivorously; afternoons' monotony gnawed at our souls individually; as nail-bitten fingers incessantly pressed to elementary blackboards, chalked and grey-
                              impetuously bruised bare flesh finger sores
                                  bled reluctantly onto the porcelain
                                           floor of a Westminster classroom .
                                                 Now I'm back in high-school mailing Christmas cards in frost-bitten February on stale Tuesday mornings to
                                     Joan of Arc's great- lascivious-granddaughter: the cumbrous bitch that fervently nits her way beside a warm residential mantel, into my lackluster world of hollowed-out antiquities:
                                  Star-Wars figurines and Muppet Babies' bedsheets 
                              Bourgeois in her parents mahogany bedroom
                                   we dry-humped after school in catlike desperation
                                  She digressed on me; her smile was all I coveted.
                                  Wintry boughs swayed in withered latitude. Wool covered her itchy nose; pale skin etched to complexion incarnadine. February moss subsided off our rock-jagged precipice.
                                     On the cool crags of a moonlit coast
                                              Our gulf grew olde beyond the silhouetted buoys
                                          In wind-ridden vales; the hunted lamb howled- hauntingly leavening
                                               the ethereal silence;
                                 reposed in our neighborhood hearth we quarreled 'till placid daybreak ascended
                                                    then malingered..........
                                            upon the frail deserted street
                                    the liquor store would open; but your mind wouldn't
                                        our cats pronounced dead on the same din stroke of  midnight.
                                         both inflected gloomily in morning obituaries
                                           through living-room window tapestries
                                   she set her reading-glasses onto a glass plated coffee-table
                                         folded her newspaper then
                                                went to back to bed.