Rhythmically Disabled Poem #642

Now I lay me down to rest
My teacup hands across my chest
I cannot sleep I must confess
Until this line comes out right

I remember things now. I remember
childhood and adolescence like they were more than
Saturday matinees playing over again in my brain and I remember
softer days when I was but a
small boy stealing candy from the local gas station and I remember
things again I remember
myself again. I remember
sixteen when I used my friendship with
gang members to scare the shit out of
unsuspecting Polo-boys at school, the precursors to
the damnable Abercrombie tykes of today
they still make me sick, Mother, they
still make me ill at the profane conformity of it all.
The beekeeper's attitude just changes
style and brand names but not mode of thought
and I ought to have known by now but how
could I have changed it for the better?

If this be a rhyme for something deeper
something profound something not found within me
without metaphor and for the world I hope it will be a little clearer
to you.
Than me.

I remember calling a black man a nigger for the first time
it damn near got me killed with good reason.
But I stared him in the face and I prayed
to no one and everyone
and prayed and prayed and prayed
until he backed down because it
turned out I really did have friends
... ones that had me drive them around
to beat people up and make fake drug deals,
yes Mother,
I was that kid that you didn't want other sons to be around
Why else would I as a white boy want to dress in purple Cross-Colours and throw up gang signs?

And Mother I pray for your forgiveness
who knew I would grow up to be this
kind of boy this
prideless hopeless bumble of a boy
who barely makes the ends meet at the middle
with an "I'll pay you later" and a beautiful smile.

I who, up until yesterday's yesterday was a dope fiending disillusioned malcontent that was hellbent on mine own destruction albeit slowly and with good drugs to boot?

Mother I wish you saw it all then
I might have felt worse about it.
I wish the secrets I kept from myself
I showed you with the same fervor.

If wishes ... dot dot dot
were horses
dot dot dot
and beggars ride smooth on my el-train of slander they kick up their boots and lean along for the fun of the trip and they continue their pleas to me and I used to listen, Mother, I still do sometimes it shines a flashlight in my face and I get dizzy just thinking about it.

I pray for myself to myself
I pray I pray I pray I pray I pray I pray
I can no longer see the light at the end of the tunnel but it's
only because I'm not staring down death's shotgun barrel anymore
and he threw the hammer back years ago, Mother.
He was cocked for me years ago.

Why did I not see it then as it comes to me now?
Why can I say this without profundity
or proclivity or prophylactic phrases and
why is it that I feel I won't understand this all
until I'm done with it and why will everyone else get it,
while I just prattle on indefinitely?

The prayer justifies the means, Mother. It's the ends scares the shit out of me.

Now it comes as no surprise
I'm like a fish in a pizza pie
I'm kind of sour and I don't lie
it's gonna take another ride
to make this feeling firmly subside
I think my vomit might just hide and ...

Now I lay me down to rest
My teacup hands astride my chest
I don't comprehend I must confess
But God tells me you do.

Rhythmically Disabled Poem #642 by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.