Pocket Full of Stones

Belts, switches, bricks, and near misses Broken boys starring as established men Police whistles, leather shoes clamouring down city  alleyways slick as a polished floor. White clubs swing, black heads snap against the dingy lines that hold brick walls together. The devil gives chase  up to and into the pearly gates heaven ain't safe. Hide and seek high in steeples I  once read, He has no equal, so why does the human race run in so  many horrible sequels? Guide me O Lord before I fall  a thousandth time.  Does salavation have  a dotted line I could sign?  Looking for clues in my girl's arousal,  a simple touch is trending as she lays trembling. Moan filled responses better known as M.F.R.s,  spill of satisfaction, fades, but is always everlasting; as quickly as it recedes   My mental hum throbs again A sea of thought washes over me and I'm overboard, overheard saying What's my name? twice. I don't think my son will ever be the same after hearing  mommy's answer. Amazing how a picture is painted. Without ever mentioning it,  you envision it. Coming back to shore, tallying up the score Motorcades and dimples, bullets and tinted windows, clean sheets dirtied, a president  is laid to rest after having created another agency in an already clogged system titled the C.S.D.  A place where no one ever gets answers but finds sleep immediately.  As I start to drift out of my writer's mind and saltwater cascades and filters through sand I'm reminded howa man can live a lifetime and die to soon. "He without sin," He said. I walked away with a pocket full of stones. Sin is a pile of rocks, broken men carry. J.F.K, M.L.K., M.O.U.S.E.  Reset button pushed. To be a kid again wondering why daddy is asking mommy such a ridiculous question when sins washed away and a stone thrown was a pebble against a window to see if the girl's sleep waiting for her light to turn on...