tongues tide

lapsing where the fire's inside

purchase granted in crevices born

anew; those defining, wracking moments

where we may whet our ruse:

fleshlessness disguised

as godlessness.

 

they called me Brindle:

baptized by brine and bristle

brushed steeline, raising thistles

where my lust for life was thought to be

the nuturance of dead. weight.

 

they called me Brindle

unsure and unsutured

bronze-called by a calf

made to bleed and laugh

surfing on rolling grains:

green grass and high tides

what a promise to make.

so I did everything they told me

 

but guised in tongue

 

and

 

cheek.

 

what a bad bet to make

to inherit the meek irons

of the american dream

yet here I sit

on upturned buckets, bereft

from all the footprints we had left

single file, to hide our numbers

and all these years I could've known better

than to make it seem like I came alone.