Pocket Man

Things you have to sell before you die

the lady in the water, the lady of the water

the pronoun “it,” your mother as a metaphor

and the strangest title ever

 

Your old friends’ moms

your mom’s ideal

your mom’s conclusion

your mom’s belief in a hero

with a crooked smile

because she reads so fast

she believes she has to be 1^st

and she is, isn’t she

how she tells you exactly when

because for some reason

she has to know that you are

a monster

 

with your own reason

you see them both

these sides of your mother

with love

that they didn’t see your reason

coming

the arrogance

that her own son could be

unpredictable, what she

had not foreseen

a blowfish

in the inflection

Your mom, the sun

your mom, the cemetery

the idea itself

because you will have to

fight for her, for a while

Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces

Your mother doesn’t come

for respect

but a display of power

her spread is not yours

because the stress is worse

for who?

 

The idea of being mediocre

even in the eyes of sex

your mother corrects you

happiness is the memory of

delight or delirium

with your father’s smile

at the point of failure or conclusion

it becomes rage or humiliation

if your mother is not with you

if you do not complete or compete

sell a devil to someone

and you sell your mother too

so that you can sell your father too

Rage makes you forget

that you’ll have to lie

to live a beautiful and reasonable

life, a pleasurable life, where?

because the idea of your mother

makes you chose

between a beautiful

and a reasonable life or lie

but you really do

have a mother

and there is no fair man

in the world

but a conditionally fair man

and the mammal instinct of rules

 

of facial recognition

like Cancer and Capricorn

your mom a two way sagittal mirror

and marriage

my inflection outside of science

the wall of selectivity

like nowhere else

to sound like you have reached

new layers of reality

means that you have reached

new layers of reality

the sound of an inflection

the only value of a first impression

Your mother could be the computer

because it behaves like a baby bottle

or a womb

or a whore

or what won’t let you grow

it’s like you are your own mother

in everything

how could this be?

This person in my dreams

like everybody else every night  

and yet you are dumbfounded

I am dumbfounded

by the mother of confusion

 

It’s like you are pregnant with your mother

her or something about her

boiling inside you

like a rap song

no greater image

except for me?

a mnemonic of sorts

with pictures

filtering what about her?

you couldn’t find it in your adulthood

and what about her kills you this way

like Winey’s honey

in a way that defeats reality

the idea of summer

Mother Gemini

the cub’s Cancer, then Leos bloom

without scorpions or bulls or goats

into the not so indistinct

but separate individual

of Virgo

everything they tell you not to be

This mother I cannot share with you

because she is there also when I am small

and I am small

and I am vanquished

but she is there

she is my hypocrite, my twin

my salvation from you

and from the sunlight without shadows

my mercy, my pity

the meaning I sometimes hope for

with friends

and when I am alone at night

she becomes a thought dear

as a candle

because these words never come

on time or

in public unless I am sparked

and she is a summer poem

and was a fall poem before this

 

Who but my mother

would listen to my second chance

until an adequate conclusion

made us like each other

the summer heat grueling a temper

the clouds pressing against levity

with suffocating moisture  

reaching another fall, a hopeful poem

A diner table is not just a diner table

it is your father

and turns everything into your mother

or about your mother

upon, contact, something

absolutely more powerful

than you, a tyrant or worm

or a fish

an everything general parenting you

of when and when nots

an environment 

Everything is your mother?

or is everything your mother?

When you faggot sentences

they question the juxtaposition

the queer query I cannot finish

not for lack of respect

my mother the devil in words

adjectives and sentences

my mother the devil

describes

and makes me suspect and betray men

something of her type

in every woman I screw

they’re never right either

never the right time

because she is always a coincidence

that I remember

at the wrong time

 

My mother is the variance

of consistency

what people without mothers

don’t understand

is a margin of error by mother

lingers like perfume

the other side of you

the sex vacuum, the savior

that tells you fucking her

is awkward and tasty like you alone

your mother, and you

the tremors, the vibrations

the colors, the sound

the tongue, ear, eye and nose

of sweet serendipity

the shape of a woman

of emptying a cup of full moon

or sunlight, with thirst, greed and wonderlust