Share this postOld Poem 2notebookenthusiast.substack.comCopy linkFacebookEmailNoteOtherOld Poem 2Late 2022jelloMar 05, 20233Share this postOld Poem 2notebookenthusiast.substack.comCopy linkFacebookEmailNoteOther1ShareDo you walk into a restaurant and smell, dull repenting dead resuscitated eyes,ever, a water tank painted, in grease and dust,ever, a dried noodle stuck,between the royal red booth cushions,drunk bald fathers fighting (for) the bill._So you ask, the owner of these eyes,are you sorry? They answer, no, no,no, we saw the trauma in thesedark brown eyes, not oursbut for them it’s the hours spentat the altar, sacrificing a childhoodor two, is nothing to these bleary-eyed_Terrors, of the night served on Daddy’s whitehat platter,in the day, you hear a harriedstring plucked in the back, and you know little Meis being turned into musicby backroom devils, separated from the sound of Mommy’s sizzling kitchen chicken._And it’s not a wonderful sound to hear, the too-salty tears ofMine flowing freely in the walk-in refrigerator, seasoningthe reeking tofu with generationalmisfortune, and an instrument ofsurrender._Do you ever look past the restaurant andhear the violin of the little boy in the back?I didn’t, and that was my mistake.
SOOOO GOOD OML