I met this kid, Rusty Spanner, at school.
Maybe it was his strawberry blonde hair,
entertainingly wavy and unkempt;
tragically like Heathcliff, he looked a fool.
To look back, we had nothing in common;
however, trouble followed us to dare
in our boredom to act out. Not exempt,
stupidity as criminals, our shame.
Kids act out in good families. Almonds
in my eyes, I was lost hoping a friend
deliver me from evil, the bottle.
Rusty's dad had a bad temper, no end
under the sun to beat with a buckle;
still, Rusty survived childhood without blame;
to say that I was not accountable
yesterday for what happens tomorrow...
Shame and guilt are Catholic inventions;
playfully created at the table
as humanity accepts their mistakes;
no longer liable once the sorrow
numbs any sense of joy, these conventions
eclipse the soul with conscience and deceit;
remarkable our hearts hammered with stakes...
as children we were bloodsucking vampires;
to slay the wrongdoer with wooden love.
Such violent beatings made us liars;
caused us to stray, while the forensic glove
held the evidence at arm's length. Conceit
of self to save our skins came at a cost;
of course, pure consciousness is our one tool
left when flayed by the knife, how I was lost.
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