Installed in cargo pockets,
A vivid-glass, a little green bag,
A pod, silverplatted case,
Which Guca-hides, Pallmalls, and a bic.
You're barfoot in tombstones.
You're father, son vulture slumped,
You befor etched letters on rock.
"Him", a glutton of Karma,
Rein ended, your fourteenth year,
Now, belly-heavy, smoking his brand.
On a Drive-by, visit home.
You're showing Gene shooter,
You're an arsenic lane of skin,
You tremble-digits, in belt loops.
A trailer in time,
Secluded woods, with pine scent,
Anger stranded from earshot,
Hand-fead, his hate's red attic.
Father giant, yelling lasting filth,
Son flesh impersonal,
Dark-spotted, and tie-dyed,
From Basketball champ fists.
You retreated-rightly to martyr mirth,
You still look for his bold heading,
Still Questing for embrace.
Pulling tube and ziplock from Cargo,
Following in bone-bared footsteps,
You spark, away walking,
Keeping his Armageddon.