From the 2007-2008 Edition

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Narc - Danielle Berrios

The night is thick and flickering and you are assaulting me, every inch of me.

Your fingers scour my surface like fingers furiously flipping through folders in filing cabinets:

Searching,

Searching.

Pausing to peek at one’s possessions, ponder.

Next.

Sometimes clumsily, like some bizarro of an espionage super hero;

Too consumed to control your breathing, too concerned to contrive your cover story.

But my hands are your nagging ambition, your driving confliction.

My hands are your final decision.

And I am the vaccine to a deadly disease, the speaking deceased,

I am the dirty little secrets of corrupt police.

In me you will find the lines that blur, un-slurred truths,

Jimmied locks on steel boxes,

Hundreds of thousands of documents: sealed, shredded, illegible, forgotten and forlorn like a cum rag after the storm.

You will burn up and burst before you can bury the burden of knowing-

There are no other showings and there’s no going back.

Your flashlight is thick and flickering and you are invading me.

You steal into the shadows with a coat full of my contents, clinging to the inkling that your will shall prevail and pale moons will croon lightly as you sleep.

But my figures and facts will be the framework of your great escape,

And I will violate your violet nights and take back my volumes while you lay

Dreaming,

Dreaming.

She said that she liked the way he talked about her eyes, how he described them as perfectly muddied moon-like, a tranquil brown, and yet still chaotic.

She was a high-maintenance girl, one that had to be seen every day, and done in every way, even in abnormal fashions: Glass Crutch and Tinfoil Passion.

He was just a kid from the other side of the tracks on his arm, a simple suburban sodomite. He was allergic to silver, but still spoon-fed privilege in abundance.

But I’ve seen winds change, his black skies crack under the weight of her sunlight, praying it’ll be alright, even though he remained trapped in a Godless night, fending off hypodermic-demons, with nothing but "the shakes," and a perfect picture of that pipe on the table.

Truth be told, that Cain was more than Able to rot his sweet tooth to the roots,

And nowhere in the rules does it say that her game stays the same.

So a strange fruit he remained, taking his life in vein.

And she knew, but never told him, that just as she is God to him, mother is the word for God on the lips of his children.

And she knew, but never told him, that just as the house of god for him, was made of glass and white bricks, the same house for his son’s was built of popsicle sticks and spit.

This rickshaw of memories, was never forgotten, nor honored.

This holy place, where he encompassed every piece of broken stained glass, discoloring his veins with every sin that he passed,

Making it harder for his seeds

To fall further from the tree.

But how much like, the father can a person be?

Inheriting his eyes, and smile, and inability to say no to love.

As he walks through his shadowed valley, he fears answers from above.

He fears his sons will fall for the same mistress, and one day awake in the night with cold sweats, and screams…

Then go back to sleep crying, because their father was a pipe dream,

A Love Fiend….