June 2 by The Running Son
The ɮɛsɬ Way to Dump a Punk
There’s no place for you here.
with your stare,
parroting parental no-care.
Where’s your kids?
barren cribs gifted
to second-class egg-hatchers I guess.
That’s class, that right there.
Ass off and partying like, “heeeey”
That aint your girl, ferret.
Surely not your heir, hairless
where god made you, I mean, damn.
And that stare.
You don’t dilate right.
And now and again I get a bad gleam–
some weird light–
of an airy, and busy hidden life
I wish I knew
who you want to be, man.
As a man, Seeing sky
and the strange movements
of highly developed light in others eyes.
But your coolness, I don’t know
what to do with it. I cant look through it.
There is no bottom. I recoil lest I slip.
Like, Who are you?
And where is the part of you
that decided to leave the crib
for the great wild blue?
Still got your bib I see. And found a way
to hustle up a friendship
that proves the rule:
glib words peak after school.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.