Scholarly Trials
by Odin Roark
Okay,
this little itch
scratch
laceration
fatal wound…

So many monikers,
but, let’s try blame.

Candy store antics,
jellybeans,
quick snatch,
friends cheer,
eat,
praise,
hero,
right?

Shame.
Blame.

Blame.
Shame.

Blame.
Blame.
Blame.

Adolescent fever,
impenetrable,
bullet proof,
right?

Of course,
‘til shoplifting,
almost caught.
Hey!

Made it.

Can’t tell anybody.
Sh*t.

Half the fun.
A bomb now.

A trip?
Hell, yes.

Sense of power?
Got that right.

Can’t tell anyone?
Bummer, Dude.

Pubes explode.
Girlfriends.
Back seat lovers.
Slippery gloss-lipped conquest,
right?

Sure,
‘till…

D*mn.
Condom busts.
Can’t brag.
Can’t face up.
Accountability.
F*ck the lesson.
Don’t want to grow up.
No.
No.
No.

But…
Now.

Wallet still full of pics.
6 month old.
2 year old.
4 year old (terror).

Bars.
Conventions.
Manager’s meetings.
Pizza empire growing….
For him.

Them.

What about me?

Ah, c’mon.
Divorce?

Yeah, that’s right.
Blame sneaks up on ya
when you’re suckin’ hind tit
on the job.

So…

So…

So…
here we are.

The park,
some kind of higher self
keeping vigil over my daily reverie,
while I ready up some new learnin’…
all over again.

Guilt?

Guilt doesn’t work.
Hard lessons, though?
Got my PhD in that.

Seems so long ago.