Friday, February 20, 2009

For You...

Short eyes is a prison expression
Like six months to a year
But with the delicate politics of romantic perversion

I wanted to write something for the victim resurrected
Who mistook twisted affection for brilliant persuasion

What is it exactly that makes some men chase newborns?
Is it that the aging is less obvious when a trophy’s at hand?
The lies he tells a child are the same lies he tells himself
Each time he’s startled by the grimace in his mirror

I wanted to write something about men and trophies
About predators who wear the latest fads
To lure unsuspecting neophytes

What is it that’s especially enticing about picking young flowers?
Or fucking a god who doesn’t yet know his name?
Counterfeit hands and money for manners
While the eyes of a baby grow wiser by the years

I wanted to write about love upside down
About magnificent illusion and the turning of tides

I love you
And not in the way he taught you
But unfailing, without competition
Even if it frightens me to be so naked and pure

I wanted to write a poem just for you
And maybe others as unseasoned as you
Who missed their chance to start over;
Reinvent themselves within the pit of recovery
Only to discover they never lost heart after all
Just the years of denial and loud indecisions

I wanted to tell you that men who need trophies
Seek their assurance from the outside in
While I stand for the things you can take to heaven

I love you
And not in the way he taught you.

From my second book, The Dredlocks Tree.

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