early years kaleidescoped

I learned from beautiful people,
through their filtered genius
and the worst parts of them.

I would look from the sides
and when it was clear
we’d throw our empty bottles,

shattering them on the path freshly
walked that same old way.
We learned aloofness; the convenience

of wealth disbordered;
void of adjacent distractions.
Our heads put through glass comfort

in the gutter we’d—my friend lost an arm
but made good for everything—excelled.
Beautiful.  Beautiful people.

They taught us benevolence
shaped in their image
most comfortable, aloof; damaging.

We were dejected, but reinforced
like every Confederate man, tied up
on display, dead or, almost, maybe [?]

Breath smoking with the cold
desert eagle at night,
forgetting the names of our unborn kids.

So it was learned:
to be safe is to hide; Safety is hidden and sought—
in the backwoods—in the anonymity
of face-down in the gutter.