My blood runs ripe with the struggles of the Sarengeti,
and ancestral memory provides an escarpment view.
Or maybe not.
My soul ranges freely with the wild Norse men of old,
speaking the ancient tongue and drinking with the Gods.
Yeah, all-right.
No.
The words of Kings and Courtesans ring in...
Ahem.
I recall the mean streets of home.
Ok.
The sorta mean streets.
Yep, the clean streets of suburbia.
A white bred, white-bread boy.
A salmon catching relaxinator, lotus eating son of lazy.
The grandson of a librarian/poet
—who I never knew,
on one side
And a machinist/labourer
—who I never knew,
on the other,
I sit uncomfortably somewhere between
viewing the schism —the chasm—
as a poor imitation of both.
Unlearned in either discipline
I wear the masks that mark my fakery,
slipping from one to the other without ever
finding a face of my own. You can join Unsolved Mysteries and post your own mysteries or
interesting stories for the world to read and respond to Click hereScroll all the way down to read replies.Show all stories by Author:  33286 ( Click here )
Halloween is Right around the corner.. .
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Man, this is great. Flow n' Go...Write on, Hack..
