Grave Recycling

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.