Parental Dispositions

                        Darkened evening shadows descended gradually down celestial havens of mid-summer  complacency. Lackadaisical air-conditioned rendezvous; you and I commenced animated puppy-love beside your stepfather's garbage disposal. Seething sweat-filled concrete swimming-pools of corporeal perspiration; bloodline rashes itched and etched toward dry auburn patterns of rug-burnt July
                                 residential afternoon sofas with me and your family tabby shedding
                                                                   grey hairballs
                                                                        onto crimson
                                                                               furnished curtains
                                                                                  covering early afternoon breezes
                                                                                       sweeping through open screen-windows.
                                                       Your mother was an (whore) drunken recluse in her late thirties; scarlet and cushioned living-room love-seats spread fervently out below domesticated corridors.  Maternal cookie-cutter innuendos, martini-olive dinner-time cutlery- brandishing your deliberated childhood with 5:00 P.M. Moonlighting chicanery: initiating promiscuous schools of thought between the local Jews, Protestant barbers and already irate Catholic women-man she was a handful before her sister's wedding. She had a  razor-sharp shrieking voice that resounded itself way out beyond
                                                              remote backyard perimeters, past
                                                                             city street corners, perpetuating profane gasoline mirages of convenience store nativity. Your pale narrow wrist pressed impatiently to your warm upper-chin in middle class waiting rooms of young adulthood. You childishly wept like an rich man's daughter at unnecessary barmitzvas attended by nonpracticing sentimentalists; I loved how you'd allude to unpleasant periods in your life-as if you endured this time for somebody else
                                                                      at your own expense
                                                                               your expensive clothing and
                                                                                   your stale imagination's expanse neglected
                                                                                     to expand
                                                                                         beyond suburban outdoor clothes-lines; recreational apparel hung in late- August alignment and what if
                                                                   a routine sun's radiance refused to shine tomorrow;
                                                                     formidably declining itself to us with insidious                                                                                               vengeance                                                                                                                                                        like remember when I took a hunting-knife to your stepfather's throat a decade ago on an backdoor kitchen porcelain morning; I took his shitty head by his unkempt hair and bloodily smashed it into the molding floorboards; we were really just emotionally depraved adolescents square dancing amid
 midnight gymnasiums of September (never was a cloudy day); I took you home to your parents bedroom while they were on vacation from themselves in Disney Land 
                                                                                                              or  was it Wildwood or
                                                                                                                 who gives a Fuck?
                                                                                                                       I do, or did.
                                                                           We smeared sticky butterscotch on each others bare flesh amid lukewarm avenues of fleshy curves, intricate ridges and sweet aromas; a mid-afternoon ceiling fan breathed Hershey-kissing promises to your tepid asshole in sugary jests of lovemaking and
                  Fucking.
                     Then you confided in me surprisingly
                            that you always wanted to be a man
                             and I confided in myself
                                    that I was done with you.
                                                               

Donna's Story

                             A few nights awhile back, a friend and I walked in the rain to a south Philly strip-bar. It may of been a Friday or a Saturday; it doesn't matter. In the greater northeast of Philadelphia; we rode around on buses and trains most of the day; confused and mourning the death of some kind of infallible life or beloved existence we never had in the first place.
                              My friend had pills that he ordered online; kind of like generic speed I guess. I took way too many of them and chewed them instead of swallowing them. They were much too strong; I felt immediately that I could keel over at any moment from heart attack, or lack of sleep and nourishment. What is it that I started out to do? I certainly wasn't trying to prove anything to anyone.
                             The drinks at the strip-bar were too expensive; pretty much not worth the moment. People say that they feel bad for strippers; I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself being there; you gotta give them crumpled up dollar bills, you can even throw the bills at them if you like. People say that you should  blame parents for begetting strippers; I strongly disagree with the idea, nobody's perfect. I waited tables for ten years; that was degrading- at least strippers know what to expect from customers: degenerate bachelors jacked up on speed or too drunk to perform in the first place.
   
                            Donna lived in a row-house on the outskirts of a populated city. She had three little boys all taken into state custody.
                     
                          Eastern coastal patterns temporarily permitted sudden gusts of wind into open wintry transit station-lines; frost-ridden jet-streams rolled in from an vast icy Atlantic perimeter. Prime-time darkness descended then digressed off downtown street-cornered intersections. Irritable motorists tailed in off                          New Jersey turnpike tollway galleries,                                                              Interwoven                                                    traffic-light indigestion shrouds
                                                                                 the Ben Franklin Parkway
                                                                           on daylight-saving evenings in February
                                                                      Radio signals churn while pistons pounced dead and rubbery
                                                                              vibrations anon automatic engine exteriors;
                                                             Sullen raindrops dribbled off fire-engine red aluminum detailing;
                                                                 postponing Wednesday rush-hour transgression.
                                                          Donna pleaded with me upon familiar pastime-playing fields;       her pale frigid fingers clasping tightly the wheel of her old man's Pontiac;
                                                          in Thursday afternoon traffic
                                             behind a local school bus letting neighborhood kids back out into the rain
                                                        " If I could just have this one thing; Dan just let me have this one thing and I'll be good- I swear; It won't be like the last time; I promise."
                                                                              

Repentance

                              There rose an indignant famine throughout an certain eastern coastal region; great winds whirled in from the vast Atlantic perimeter, spreading dormant fatigue upon our belligerent Sunday populace- moist and fertile clouds surrounded an grayish tempest; windswept glaciers capsized minute attempts at vague productivity; olde wintry days of Howl surrounded bedridden February.
                                        St. Valentine shot me up with tepid sedative; hypodermic evening milk embalmed our collective subconscious, along vintage county-lines of maladjusted angels.
                                   I've spoken to you and through you soberly, returned immersed in euphoric complacency. Ice-sculpted edifices of cold hungry peasants grimace year-round, we cursed pleasant springtime premonitions, fervently piled decayed bodies atop sweltering dog-days of August insipidity .
                           
                                (A village circle's circumference; bag-women hang their heads in dreadful tiding)
                         
                              Come, come Evangelia; the plaza fountain is frozen now and forever. Vulturous civilians only sigh in passing; transient messages delivered promptly through our father by eternal Pharisees - we currently warm icicle fingers atop street-line sewer drains in stale anticipation; pridefully awaiting the thief who'll lift our hollow spirits back to hell;
                 
                                          In the juvenescence of the year came Christ the tiger
                                 
                                   Warped metal breathes in prolonged intervals of leap-year lineage.
                            Neighborhood ancestry speaks in vacated warehouse tongues, to interwoven city-street corners in residential evening. Prodigal shopkeepers and timorous entrepreneurs hastily scurry along cement sidewalk surfaces, smudging mindlessly toward flickering holiday traffic-light conflagrations. Daylight saving denizens; diseased souls possessing corporeal corpses- unselfconsciously sacrificing personal ends with society's primeval means.
                            4 p.m.; a lulled hush scowls from an remote streetcar rasping down distant avenues. On the fourth-story floor of an section-eight infested tenement, death subsides in humanly initiation. Victorian windows open out onto an slumbering evening courtyard, carpeted in petaled auburn grassland among withered tree-trunk-skeletons.
                            A season dead within a season's cycle. Frail beginnings commence reluctantly into an desirable abundance, an necessary end to our worldly wants and desires.
                            Our fathers flesh for only our sake; we'll continue to hate beyond possible perception. This misconception is designed to take us out until the end, \
                                          and it will
                                            as it has
                                              and will continue
                                                   until an perpetual end
                                                        unimaginably agonizing and torturous
                                                         an end we knew whilst living
                                                          and nothing
                                                               more and
                                                                  more of
                                                                     nothing....
              
                   
                                    (repentance)