..ill . literacy...

he hasnt written any notes yet
hasnt understood any street signs or even the price of the rasta man ital stew
he hasnt known the crypt
the way a man can say things to a woman without presence

he doesnt know silence
and he knows it so much more through seeing
and if it is believing
he is his own saviour and sinner.

easier to absorb porn and cable...

arrg scritchy scratch.

he can not leave a note for his wife if he chooses to kill himself
nor can he leave a note if he chooses rebirth...

all he leaves are holes punched in his bathroom door
the remnant of rage toward his mother displaced
he leaves collections of ammunition,
assorted caliber barrels
pins and hammers in separate packaging
he leaves spent shells beside sea shells on Bull Bay's black sand

and blood sips the edge of a creeping tide
where wild dogs gang an already dead man

he leaves red footprints on his grandmothers coconut haired mat
ejaculate on towels stuffed behind the toilet...
he pisses in the sink sometimes and knows that it is wrong
but just to defy everything for release....

he learned to read faces,
the shapes of clothing, bulges in waists,
he learned to read intonation, learned to find a girls soul
stuck in her throat...coax it out from her mouth
and swallow it....

He was his own seeing dog
his own tap tap tapping stick...
blind man with vision
seeing everything
knowing everything from the source that is himself.
He is a dictionary, a lexicon of personalized interpretations of letters words and phrases heard and memorable, sentences to hold on to, others to create, flitting mind strokes,

but his lexicon does not align with the websters, wikipedia, oxfords,
it instead aligns with the potholes, orange peel, lime leaf tea and ackee and saltfish
and if you ever taste how he spice down the nations national dish!
brilliant young man, but his own self inflicted boa constrictor...