and don’t fucking call me norman

i’m not a mormon

he said

he wrote            he typed

they let me sleep   they let me be

and be is what i did. 

i be’d

peter, “sometimes it be’s like that”

thanks bruce’s only child

truer words     never quoted

truer hearts never broken

the shouting outside that sounded like preaching or singing an auctioneer ringing some suburban black kid rapping to his latino buddy who kept turning over and over this muddy skateboard  heard whored im plored  feet floored   damn if these niggas don't  look bored  straight outta lilburn  without any home of their own left to say just a bunch of half syllables and rhymes thrown away just like me just like me just like me      don’t you say

hiding behind honesty

hon   es tee

like it looks   like a tree    what it looks like to me

well  now you’re on to something norman

every day brings another disappointment

what you mean by feeling comfortable behind it really adds up to me feeling righteous and that is the very thing i’d hoped to avoid on the long way back to the home i  employ as a halfwit past or a heart full of soul that tree like a rock has me give up control and the offbeat rhythm of an australia  survivor slithers the world of my truth    as a viper sinking fangs into hearts made full with derision firing at friends with startling precision spitting out lines when nobody’s listening returning my part to the pain of permission

so it’s something to think about sung as a tune buried deep in my head and it’s hewn from the big oak tree mr. hooker gave name that still grows on the back of the gunstock remains that provides the sad ones with the notes that they need to roll over and into the waters machine and get clipped vexed and versed in to making things proud right before one turn of the dial makes it loud    makes under hearing an act of contrition turns revelation into repetition makes tarrytown waves to float over things like normans   and letsons   brendons and jakes

just a wish of hot air   

can’t compare     to the right 

left alone 

 visit home

misunderstood     unknown

never asked

but    i might

photo by Lisa Fletcher