Whenever
words come out of his mouth his arms thrash and flail the air like severing
bullwhips teaching the air how it feels to kiss the sharp breeze w/a dangerous
tease.
He
jumps up and down like a toad that has just lost his mind wording the stories
he was told as a young child when the world was but memories old.
(The
world it was hot and then it was cold.)
And
the people lacking sunshine laugh at his only facade ~ the one that was
perpetually sad.
Every
once in a while he got a pain to his knees and he cried in the bathroom,
sitting on the floor rubbing them until they felt well. And the other kids ran
up and down the stairs but some of their deeds would never agree with what
their parents taught them. He heard all the kids laughing in various degrees
from their guiltiness and misdeeds.
And
his world was old.
And
his stories were bold that he told the likes of we.
My, Winston sure is gifted.
No
one, not one heard a word he said but they were impressed with the frog and the
arms and all they could see.
The
pain to his knees commanding a kneel.
His
various degrees ever surreal.
1995
Victor Millan
