“Ripping the hairs ”

Ripping the hairs
from my nostrils
again, I wonder
how they grow
so fast
and how I grew
so fast
that I am now
ripping the same hairs
I remember staring at
in the bulbous ears and out
the vast noses of all the adults,
so old, back then, sitting
in their seats waiting
for the show to begin.

There are those
moments in childhood
when he or she notices
the awful destiny of humanity.
To sprout out those tiny black twists
from the most innocent of places.
How could this be
what life becomes?

There are those
moments and more.
Suicide at the age of 9
is contemplated seriously
only to escape the brutal agony
of time and her nature.

I slung my jump rope
high over low hanging
branches of a pear tree.
The earth spanked me
harder than my father
ever could;
A coward’s failure,
tasting of blood, dirt, and spit.

So I rip out the hairs,
waiting for the next show to begin.
I have seen so many previews.
The coming attractions
continue over the heads
of the old adults sitting
in front of me at the theatre.
I am hardened,
but the ground
will always be harder
until I am in it.

narrative poem written on 06-19-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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