An Open Poim to Beau

Dear Beau
Dear Beau I am sorry
Dear Beau I met you at that big conference
You were wearing a rainbow hat
And you swore you knew me.

Dear Beau
I gripped my cell phone and my palms got sweaty
Dear Beau Dear yellow gurl Dear Trish Dear the unspoken
Dear me.

Faint is the word, the licenses are post-references
I am at a loss of sleep and yet I slouch towards the Mayhem
I have profane Latin splayed across my thick shoulders
My eyes bellow, gleam into the sunlight
And I bend my lamp to shade me from its grace.

Who am I, mentality?
Dear Beau.
I bought your book. I bought your book and social media twisted winds and crossed the boundaries but I still could not reach you.

You spoke to me.

Dear Beau.
So I heard you were chasing the Lee.
Was it the Lees, or the Lis, or was it just Bruce?
Could it have been me?

Dear Beau.
I turned my back on you.
And I made promises deep and profane.
But I made them all the same.
So it is, the game.

Dear Beau.
I look at the sun as it sets on the West Coast,
And turn to Dekalb and find myself split asunder,
My eyes are torn wider and wider,
I find myself wiser, or do I question myself yet?
Isn’t it for the sake of the question?
What man makes me? Dear Beau.

It is ten-o-8-pm and I feel the blue monster,
It lunges towards my intuition,
And I feel I cannot sleep.

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3 responses to “An Open Poim to Beau

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