From Sanderson Lane, Indian Wells Circle
really bent the spoon after my brother left home
onwards and upwards is his apparent motto
maybe I was not a real man made of marble
Success was a joke, somehow I was born to fail
at home, I lost touch with the sequence, my genome
no one understood why I was always blotto
drunk or stoned or high on LSD or mushrooms
erect an iron monument, as to detail
rest assured, I see where others lack attention
sober since today, my struggle to awaken
of course, was no joke, to overcome the tension
not only held me back from makin' da bacon
Left catatonic, in an asylum, the fumes
as toxic as bleach ingested by an inmate
nearly made me sane, feeling the pain of otherwise
except I was lost, trying to be an adult
India, a dream where I was born to create
not a difference there, but in the United States
difficult as spines on a hedgehog, my mother's
inspired name for me from a crew cut, no insult
as a language game, she sought only to describe
not to inflict harm through words but truth through her weights
Words balance the scales, a legal secretary
endlessly she sought work on this side of justice
left alone at home, a latch-key kid, I carry
love as transient, unlike Caesar Augustus
served as emperor of the Roman Peace, inscribe
Cuts onto a map, a legacy of empire
in my foreign-born capacity, I observe
rise and fall as charm, removed from authority
cleansed of my palate, I taste what I set on fire
left in the kitchen, I learned to cook with some verve
except with no skills, my inferiority
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