Sometimes a boy’s anger can only be expressed as violence –
Violence against himself – violence against others –
He blew the goat’s head off because it had gone mad – gone crazy –
the goat had started to kill the other goats –
he blew it’s head off with a gun – a shotgun –
it died – and I watched it happen (after I distracted the goat, so it could be killed) –
city boys aren’t supposed to see goats being killed –
it is not within the formula of living in a city
She asks me to kiss her – and I told her I would
It’s not only goats that go insane
Nail in the horseshoe as if it were natural –
I won’t hold the horse – you hold the horse as you nail it –
I don’t even know why horses need shoes -
She asks me to unbutton her shirt – and I told her I would
We ride the horses with their horseshoes –
and I do not like it –
there is a reason I am how I am –
and I do not shoot goats or shoot horses
– I just don’t –
I nervously pluck the blades of grass (as she sits in front of me) –
because I’m nervous
– nervous to give her the necklace I bought for her
It is inexpensive and kind of cheap-looking – and it’s heart-shaped –
…it is what I can afford –
She asks me to caress her in an adult and romantic manner – and I told her I would
- sometimes a boy’s anger can only be expressed as violence
but I don’t kill goats –
I just don’t –
Her perfume shares obvious hints of leather and of sometimes delicate autumn pears –
I drink it all in like it’s a fine wine – like I’m in France at some café – and it is fancy with pressed and neatly laid out white tablecloths and silverware that isn’t plastic or inexpensive metal -
Her perfume is like that
she thanks me for the necklace (it hangs down from her neck and it swings gently and back-and-forth in the country breeze), and I blush and take her hand in mine
She asks me to enter her – and I told her I would
I don’t kill goats –
Her hair falls upon my chest from above, like raindrops on asphalt –
Like soft kisses upon tight skin on a hot summer’s afternoon –
Like white canvas pleasantly violated by liquid blue –
Like a string of similes that never seem to end…
her hair is like that (is this how a poet would describe it?)
Sometimes a violent boy is violent because he has no choice to be anything other than what he is –
…time skipping forward – time skipping forward -
…I’m not describing me here – did you think I was?
He (my male friend) sees us lying together in the field –
the open field near the tractor and barn –
- with the cows a short distance away, paying us no mind -
the field is littered with daisies – littered with physical new discoveries -
he kills goats (my male friend) – and I can’t say I approve
She asks me to be rough – to not hold back – and I told her I would
I won’t kill horses or goats –
I just won’t – and I will look away – or disappear – or disintegrate – or collapse or faint – anything but the alternative –
anything but the alternative
Sometimes a violent boy is violent because he has no choice to be anything other than what he is –
but you’ve heard this before – you’ve heard this before –
the needle on the record is skipping – yet its rhythmic predictability is soothing –
new knowledge and happenings require attention and effort –
sometimes a repeated disco beat or a skipping record is relaxing –
you know what happens next
The campfire before us glows kind of like light-sticks do - and her head is on my shoulder –
and I like it –
- he (my male friend) looks at me from across the campfire – and I know what he has done –
I know what he has done – I know what he is – and I know what he represents
Beneath the brilliant and twinkling stars – as if they are performing for us –
we walk into the almost pitch-black evening among the tall grass blades and the cicadas, the campfire resting until our return –
The insects present us a symphony – and we listen without judgement –
with a sense of merriment and childlike (almost boyish) wonder –
they are performing for us –
and her perfume lingers around us – autumnal hints of oranges mixed with musk oil and wood shavings –
like from a woodworking class in high school
I don’t kill goats –
Sometimes a violent boy is violent because he has no choice to be anything other than what he is –
(my male friend) -
violence won’t leave him alone –
like a car accident memory that plays and replays non-stop –
like a punch from his father () as a boy he cannot help but repeat as a man -
again – like similes that just won’t quit
She kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before –
he (my male friend) sits across the field (not too far off) and watches –
and I know he is watching –
goats rarely kill themselves – and I know this to be fact
I physically embrace the butterflies – they hide my mind from the rising sun that I do not yet know will be for me as the timeline moves in multiple directions as it always does
Will I lose myself? Will I no longer be as I understand?
_____
It’s morning and I wake to a hand within mine – fingers interlocked –
like a commitment or like a new beginning –
or like when things similar to fingers interlock with the same or similar objects happen -
it’s like that –
the TV snow grows more vicious, and I no longer see human shapes or shadows –
it’s TV snow, but the snow is of an opposite color than what was expected
And I don’t kill goats –
and he promises me he won’t again (and I believe him) –
and, this morning, her hair smells like blueberries –
blueberries (with spicy vanilla notes) accompanying stuttering beginning-day coffee very well –
No, no, no – this isn’t how it happened – this isn’t how it happened –
this is not how it is happening…
the end TV show credits are scrolling backwards – up the screen –
the plot has been confused and the audience isn’t understanding –
it’s worse and less straight-forward than television snow
_____
the goats are not dying, and I realize it was his fingers interlocked within mine –
it was his fingers all along (or was it?) – and the townspeople never knew –
she vanishes because she never existed (a story I tell over and over with various endings) –
his hair and skin, kiss, and embrace smell like sunshine – like brilliant rays upon a light-starved landscape and I open my eyes wide to embrace the radiance and the brilliance and the enthusiastic celebration of living and of love
Yes! - and of love
it’s been him all along – and the goats are safe –
and so am I
- and so am I
and so, am I?
Photo: Jimmy Broccoli with Neigh Neigh, the Horse on a Stick.
