The Young Man and the Sea, Part Three (c. 2011)


To my left, I caught a glimpse of the landscape, the habitat that housed the hatred and human suffering that plagued the minds of the local wild animals.

That housed the blueprints of the fallen, buried beneath the feet of crazed mammals. Who stop their snarling for a moment of silence in an effort to hear the words that will only soothe them in the moment, until they are unable to hide who they really are any longer and reveal the wounded animals underneath.

That housed the little boys and girls with the funny names, who question the world around them and ignore the obvious assumptions for higher thinking. Allowing the items out of the box to represent their minds, but only seen as the weirdos across the classroom.

That housed the fiery flames that nearly burned down the complex. Swallowing whole the feeling of stability and replacing it with stern eyes and warnings of academic suicide. As he shakes and crumbles under the weight of reality and releases his love in the form of red tears…

That housed the hippies deep in their never ending sleep. Awake within their nightmares, as they swirl into darkened nonsense and heavy storm clouds. Trying to understand and make sense of the characters who reside in his mind: the hairy cowboy detective and the violent black man who invade the homes of their loved ones.

That housed the group of bandits who drink and complain of the economy and of their wives. Swearing up and down and cursing out the Negro puppet they promise runs their country. Using their reds, whites, and blues to cross out the un-American and his tribal members.

That housed the English courses that shape the mentalities of tomorrow’s writers as they learn about World Literature, Shakespeare, Black American Literature, Women and Literature and Creative Writing to make sure they possess the tools to properly express their economic failure.

That housed the fears of being by one’s self. Coming face-to-face with what it is he fears most. Without a pen and paper to record his slowly unraveling mind, he uses his screams as ink and the un-answering silence as paper.

That housed the breaking bridges of love and the bits and pieces that fell in the raging river below as it carried away the tools that served to strengthen the connection in the first place, to a place where bare feet wade in the water, trying to make sense of the hard questions that are tossed their way as they daydream about odd things and unusual occurrences that go on across the river, where dreams are broadcasted, but forbidden to those who lack penises by those glasses-wearing sexist men in ungodly long beards.

That housed the innocent minded children too focused on their toys. Who ought to be left alone.

That housed the empty classrooms, filled with the thoughts and ponderings of young college-age men and women. Who study the art of seclusion and seduction. Who remind me of the little hearts that began beating for the same reasons, but slowed to a painful halt as the heart attack began…

That housed the gateway that brought the pain and suffering into the worlds of the clean and pure as they grew beards in various places and listened as their voices deepened. Singing the songs of the grown-ups around them as they paid bills, made their rent, and applied for food stamps in an effort to usher themselves into the existence they desperately craved but now realize as a mistake as only the good die young.


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