for Thomas Christopher Warren

When our mothers spit us out into this world
this world became an arena
and our hearts began to race.

We had eyes as big as birthstones and we took shape holding our breath
as if the Red Sox won the World Series every year since we were born –
it wasn’t a competition,
it was never run home or strike out.

There’s only so many childhoods a boy can spend
talking to his Matchbox cars – breathing life into inanimate objects.
If I had it all again – to do over – I would share
more
often.
Because I know now that those toys were worth more
to the kids who never had them.

We watched our mothers play too many hands of Solitaire,
so much so that we didn’t need a DNA test to know that we followed suit.

We were children promised everything.
Pressed into molds, we couldn’t make the zippers fit,
because some of us made fists of peanut butter
and ate our feelings.

We were raised by society to think an awful lot about who we were,
emphasis on awful.

We watched married couples share beds like two tectonic plates
and wondered if it was our fault –
lines
that caused the separation.

We were monsters struck with feeling,
we were monster trucks with engines as heavy as hunger.
We just wanted to crush the world.
We threw knuckles in the direction of sadness
and stomped our feet in the direction of graves – not knowing where we’d end up.

Behind us lies in ruins that which was at our disposal,
crushed like we’ve been crushed.
Sometimes these hearts feel as if they are made of tin foil.
When they break it’s jargon,
shreds like aluminum
leaves metallic remnants on our tongues.

On the dark half of a lot of days I find myself wishing that my chest was made of glass
so that I could tear open my shirt and show you the window
pane,
put my heart on display.
Mind the tattoo across my chest:
in event of emergency break here.

If this arena were a stage
I would say this from the orchestra pit – if you needed a soundtrack –
with a string section and a lot of percussion,
“Everybody sets their expectations high
but we don’t have to be our mother's best features
and we’re not destined to be our father's worst days.
Yes, we have been crushed
but we have also been driven.

We are not atom bombs,
we are not explosions,
we aren’t even artistic photographs of mushroom clouds
but what we carry in our chest is a biological weapon
set to self-destruct.

So, while the engine is revving,
while we still have time,
let’s live like two monster trucks set to collide.”

05/27/2010

Posted on 05/28/2010
Copyright © 2024 Frankie Sanchez