Imitation of Walt Whitman Poem

They cry and cry; telling I, the bum to find work and leave the corner
They cry; for truth and omnipotent power, yet destroyed my world
They cry – all of them; and I gauge my anger for them
I lie to them and say the sun will rise tomorrow
I hold off the storm for a day, and the flood for an hour
And they cease their tears
And they thank me
And routine sets back; telling I, the jury to have mercy and allow the witness to speak
And routines set back;  yet they hesitate to grab their clubs.
Routines set back; and a hindsight shines through the dark clouds.
I have sat back into the constant gaze from the angle of my corner
I have held my rusted offering mug to my waist as I lay in the rain
I have yelled for everyone to stop their ways
And they cease the yelling and arguing
And they learned from fear and prosperity

Five Snapshots

Inspired by a friend, I decided to write a few little snippets of experiences that either happened to me, wish had happen to me, or completely made up. Each paragraph reveals a trait I have about myself, may it be good or bad. Keep in mind that I have changed wording, situations, or even characters to better suit what I am trying to bring into these paragraphs.

– Paranoiac impulses convulse my mother’s yelling mouth as I lay in bed, three minutes late for school. She preaches the familiar march of the optimist and expects me to take the trite words to heart. I keep to my comforting mattress–pull the covers over my head–and tell her she’s taking things to an inappropriate level of aggression. My grayish morning-sunlit walls rumble with violence as she slams the door telling me only to “get ready.” Through cynical disobedience, I resume my place on the bed. I wait–half asleep–for the next phase of verbal combat with my mother.  During these early hours, somehow, I manage to negate all thought of the fight. Spotlighting a stumbling conscious towards a memory of a snapshot that belonged to my mother. She looked young–my age–and she was standing next to her mother. Her hair, decorated with curls and waves, demonstrated the symbol of youth and growth. The eyes once possessed, looked bright and exuberant in stark contrast to the current peepers which seemed hurt, tired. She looks more like her mother now than herself in this picture.

– “What do you mean I have nothing to worry about?” my mouth commences to perspire and abruptly dry. I’m on the phone, pacing back and forth in my room, fighting to control the tremors in my arms and squeezing the cordless as to broadcast the palm’s bide to the recipient. “She’s going to pull something stupid and unexpected! She’s holding me back, man, don’t tell me you don’t see that!” The cordless is silent for five seconds, gathering fraudulent aspiring phrases and invalid arguments to the conflict I struggle to narrate. A pit of hopelessness originates and incorporates into my stomach. In reflex, my throat constricts my dry tongue, my eyelids pressure their corresponding counter-lid, my head knots. Breaking silence, the cordless speaks:

“Thing’s will get better man. Your time will come.”

– A tall boy of sixteen is seen exiting the Ruby’s Diner with his youthful mother. The two walk out together, sharing a mother-son moment no other relationship can truly imitate. Brilliantly, the two bounce their happiness off one another and the sew of positive energy evokes there day. The tall boy sports the ensemble of a professional businessman, giving him the visual trait of seeming narcissism. The mother illuminates herself with an equally professional style, red blazer and all. Tonight was a special day for the two. It marked the beginning of a new era, the ending of long lull, and a new hope in the family’s business revenue plan.

The temperature is intolerably hot. Usually, I am pleasant and forgiving of the living quarters provided by a third-world country, but under these circumstances: it’s a hell. A single ceiling fan mocks me, giving the illusion that I should be brought a relief, a breeze. I stare minute by minute at the fan, imagining scenarios where it could detach from the hinges of the hold, crush me, and end misery. My face is swollen, greasy, unbearably warm, it had not been washed for days maybe a week by now. I feel a cluster of blood dried up beneath my eye and each time I blink the hardest part stings my retina like a violent wasp. Breathing was difficult, too. I had to use my mouth causing it to dry up like the desert-world I had abandoned days before. Intervals of “breathe in” consisted of a surplus of warm air rushing into my dry mouth stinging every taste bud in my tongue and hashing my throat. My physical state is handicap. No moving, no eating, no talking. My pain matched the motivation for going through this. All will be better, once the bandages come off.

-Minuscule and inert this dilemma was. The rusted tin cup held up to me, pleading for mercy of my personal currency handle. Click, click, click, and the ominous flashes of bright rapid lights ravaged me and the bum on the corner of Marshall. I attempt looking at the crowd for a hint of what they want me to do, only to be blinded by the web of flashes. Everyone wanted me to perform an act of civil kindness, to exploit and prostitute into the black and white of a Chicago Tribune. Not a frame went uncaptured as I grasped the bum’s tin cup and flung it into the crowd. The nickels’ clang on the street goes unannounced compared to the raping of the camera’s clicks. I see my breathe in the shill air and it reminds me of steam. Everyone yelled, everyone sufficated under the idea of what I’ve just done to man who has lost all in his life. I only hope the paper is filled with a cover of something that happens everyday.