There Are Certain Particular People

                                        There Are Certain Particular People

There are certain particular people who will not accept help from individuals darker than the trunk of a living tree. There are people who will be hanging from the edge of a cliff, barely holding on by the tip of a protruding piece of metal, and deny the tan hand that gives assistance. These people will let go of their flimsy piece of safety and fall into the bottom of a pit containing multiple rocks all in the shape of hammers and daggers that will crush and cut the skin. One never knows if brown is contagious, better to die clear.

Still there are others who will take the hand of an auburn gentleman and climb to safety over the impending doom provided by the aforementioned cliff. Once they have been helped by the brown gentleman they will look him condescendingly in the eyes and focus only on the color of his dusty skin. They will thank the gods that they are safe, not only from being crushed and cut by hammer and dagger shaped stones, but also that they are light skinned. They will however feel a sense of subtle guilt for betraying the grander notions held by Euro-centric gentlemen in boxy suits and cry quietly to themselves.

There are certain particular people, who will give a dark skinned baby to the thirsty fangs of a flea ridden, biased full, and stocky wolf to be eaten at the wolf’s leisure. The people of a village, without fully knowing why, motivated by a subconscious desire to have their children succeed, will gather all the flour in a 20 mile radius, splatter it in the village square and dance, twist, shout, and squirm all over it. The people of this village will pray to unknown gods and wish for something they dare not say out loud and can only say to themselves while bathing in a far away river or while in a drunken state in front of only the house’s chairs. The people of this village will give a dark skinned baby to a wolf that is kept at the outskirts of this village but that is regardless invited occasionally to feast on the small limbs of dark offspring.

There are certain particular people who will take the population of a city with skin darker than the color of a mahogany tree silently swaying in the wind, and place signs of apology around their neck.  These signs will state in very eloquent and very grammatically correct words how the person wearing the sign of apology is sorry for something that is not explicitly stated in the sign. The people who make the population wear said signs will never mention them, just casually be aware of their presence and attempt to stay away from them while at the same time being tactful and respecting the fact that everyone is equal. That is their public theology.

The people made to wear the signs of apology become so accustomed to them that they breathe, jump, sing, and sometimes die without noticing them at all. However, there are times when a brown person wearing the large and heavy sign bumps into a small child or looks into a two way mirror while eating a deliciously cooked ethnic meal and realizes, in a perhaps dumbfounded way that leaves the person confused for two hours and thirty minutes, that he was wearing said sign for nineteen years of his life. It is then up to the person wearing the sign of apology to burn it or carry it; silently, fatherly, caringly around his auburn colored neck. 

Slim, Skinny, Thin

                                          Slim, Skinny, Thin

There are two of the women that I have never before been with but I have.  One is slim beyond the acceptance of a man , just barely getting by as a participant in social circles.

She is tall and faired skinned and pretty but lacks the traditional physical treasures coveted by any man with a beard who has ever considered himself a pirate.

She is angry at the world, climbing the doors of public transportation and looking no one in the face and being defiant and inviting opposition.

She hates her gender and meets them with frigid eyes already being cold without first diving into conversation.

Her Gender has judged her harshly and she expects the same from every being with long lashes and soft skin and bright eyes.

It is a ruse to hide her extreme and perhaps pitiful fragility. She hates before she is hated.

Lacking a hold on the basis of her gender she lacks a group of birds with whom to roost with. She is a single pack running in a slow tired trot.

The opposite sex then becomes a sort of perceived oasis. In a set of heavy eyes she seeks a road to social talks. Her desire to live through them becomes particularly overbearing, grabbing them by the dropping modifiers of a heavy voice.

She becomes possessive of her new bridges into a room with a microphone and lets no one step foot on it, a bird casually resting its tired wings on the structure of the bridge receives the fury of a brooding gaze. He will as well.

They sense this and stick around only to hear their heart twice in a panicked mode, some, the “benefactors” of her misplaced search of acceptance through intimacy.

She becomes enraged, fury left; rage right, serenity nowhere to be found. 

She dismisses her current possession with the fervor of a child who has found her doll to lack a cleft chin. She regards the chin, imperfect in her mind and seeks another.

She takes no breaks in between the search for whatever it is she seeks in the lips constantly leaving coming and being replaced. So she becomes exasperated hating all the ugly, pretty, tall, tiny, smart, stupid things all in the supposedly forgotten recess of her mind.

She seeks as we speak

Simple, Simple, Simple

Simple, Simple, Simple 

Bordering on the basic
knowledge of
his babbling mind.
Basically his own a poor grasp based on lore.

Vulgarly a loan
searching for more
unable to leave shore
of an ignorance filled core.

Bordering on the small town
of a country kept down
by the efforts of
a suit dressed clown.

Hoping for more
his body left sore
the pain in the core
of his hands
from working a foreigner's lands
with a metal heavy lance.
too much to take

Reaching for a knife
to silence the life
to quiet the sorrow
and miss the tomorrow.

Then tomorrow came
and a boy raised tame
with a long heavy name
enjoyed the soil on his plate
fed by the the figure of late.

Wondering Wandering

Wondering Wandering

Is it there in the bottom of your heels?

Or is it at the very tip of your toenails?

Is it there behind your headboard?

Or is it casually thrown away in the remnants of a pile of clothes? 

Is it there gathered in the gutter of your shower?

Or is it floating away in a water conservatory?
Is it there lost in the humid jungles of old?
Or is it buried under tons of hot dessert sand?
Is it there floating up in the clouds?
Or is it being tossed around by a rage-full northern gust?
Is it there in orbit out in the foreign space?
Or is it joining the constellation of some lonely cosmos?

Length

Length 

Longer than the clues left by her nimble feet

Stretching forward into the deeper crevice of her long slender legs

There, waiting, a ray of hope to make a long cold winter melt with ease 

Combustion

Combustion 

Uttering a long list of eloquent mutterings.

All with a violent and passionate vehemence. 

All directed towards a being of moderate attraction.

All to express a perversely innocent infatuation. 

All vomited out by a pair of trembling lips. 

All falling on indifferent callous ears. 

Intro

I am a nineteen year old young man with a morbid interest in literature, poetry, and films. Throughout my short life I've had trouble finding peers who share my infatuation with literature. So, in a final attempt at finding like minded individuals, I have turned to posting my thoughts on a medium used by many.