I'm not high, I'm scared
my veins pulsating --
pounding swirl head bass in a low rider,
my arms pulled in jerky rhythm
riding down bump slide to and fro of skin
to squeeze out quake shake hands;
dried out leaves in Fall's chaotic wind
gesticulating strangulation urges out my breath
running madly in flailing limbs morphosed
into grainy cackle pitching up and down like
the spine numbing laugh of a mad woman
in the sleepy 'safe' confines of the sane world.
my mother, knees bleeding, rocking on
cracked pavement of backyard play
lights one match in thwarting Summer breeze
that molests the fiery tip into oblivion's disfigured air
she lights another, cupping it with tremor finger tips--
unites waving flame into unwilling combustion
with silvery pages
of her son's porno mag, found
hidden in the whirlwind struck dishevel of
teenage boy room
her eyes are dilated in furious emptiness save that
of dark wilderness oil depth that bubbles up
waves of terror and flinch at the singed pages.
She is a madwoman now, lost to the inner sepulchral grains
of past that rub in painful unison against her reason
each shaking finger, wild prayer, strand of mystic graying hair
tell stories that go beyond the pages of Penthouse
into her own house of childhood thieves and repenting
hypocritical heaven bound pleas--
burning pages, in quick click from calm to crazy, becomes
the burning down of a dead but seizing house.