a skin between the frame on the post-closet wall
pulling on strings connected to pre-identifiers
nobody puts you through twelve years of study periods
to tell you who sits below the hairline

you need a cousin with a bag full of plastic
to explain what mistakes are made from
asking for kitchen utensils from grandparent's neighbors
to fake gun play by the community pool

someone's step-dad's guitar collection
calls out as a focal point
back-dropped between stolen porn DVDs with bad acting
but you don't even know what fingers a chord is made of

i was reminded of violence by watching preteens stomp on rocks
instead of heads
between family dinner functions
where i found a patch of dirt to fit between
waiting patiently for curfews

(late night studies
of the moon in cyan, magenta, yellow and black
where the optic nerve burning sensation
showed me a name i wasn't familiar with
watermark photographers
you know where i'm coming from
/
ma'am, would you please cup your hands around my left ear and scream?
i'm trying to re-invent my dominant hemisphere
a show of hands for the kids with college reading levels at age 8
i learned that, in low light, nobody can tell if you're part of a roster in a contemporary art film class)

introduced to waking life
through cold rains and an iced coffee machine
it's a personal letter to my thrift-button flannel formative self
you will grow in to your ears if you get loud enough

and we kept wearing names across our chests made from block stencils