The Cure

One second after sedation —The canal looked as if a cracker farmer had gotten hold of murk green algae water colors and lay it all down in a stream of hella hot Miami wax candle batik paused in primordial ooze molting cinder block sparkle jalousie glazed fish-egg spawn before the gods would have it rain all the pain away before the same old dawn in stink of unbegotten garbage filled with a variety of tattle-tail colored vipers grass snake varieties and mixed nay castigated with hot maraschino pepper cherries with no scheming nudiustertian toddler croissant covered sugar-coated cop mothers in deep deep deepest yesterwind. I’m home to visit. Stopwatch. Calloused crimped hazelnut brown eyes floating down the Miami river, afire, goats and horses burning from the melted wax at her little perfect innocent Lula feet. Burn Baby Burn. Momma. Agony. Unstill. Find my fingers. I know they are around here somewhere.

“Daddy drove the bus.”

“Ms. Liye?”

“Daddy drove a bus.”

“Ms. Liye?”

“Daddy drove his bus.”