by Daniel Davis Clayton

But first let us pray. Dear Lord, we were all born with tears in our eyes and no one ever thought to preserve them for evidence of the insurrections against us. Trepidation soothed with either Jesus or drugs, we moved into the realm of poetic thugs where no hugs equated into brands and scars and jars of formaldehyde to sell. The good book spoke of the hell we happened to create. A better look gave us opportunities for redemption for our actions. There was nothing left to destroy so we began to rebuild. And that began with a baptism summarized of the tears collected from our eyes.

Amen.

My dad said it resembled the mark of a slave. The raised flesh of sinsubordanition. Akin to whim coordination to accurately place our daily decisions in collisions of sacred visions divined and divided into pie slices as defined as hind-site-ist to be offered more often to those coffined than to those still confined to this earthly realm. In other words, he disproved of my carpe-diemesque enacted actions. I regretted that momentarily, but sparingly it was not to be fretted, for those days of uncaring came.

After months and years of being told, as my aspirations to be an artist, I would become famous only after my demise. I came to despise his imperfect encouragement. My morning mournings of middle school preparations resembled jostled joinings like a marriage which was never truly consummated. Only concentrated dichotomies of orchestrated colostomies swang from bowel differed hips in succession. My confessions to Jesus fell on the def ears of all others and on scattered leaflets.

For a moment I thought my sacred momentous and literatured tempos written in iambic pentameter crescendos reflected the world which encircled me. In all actuality those psalms reflected the understanding of eros through mine eyes only. Of course all seen and experienced was not of physical love. The herald of my home harbored quizzical thugs yet administered menial hugs which healed as quickly as her inaction allowed disturbing interactions and engagements to reign. You see it disturbed me deeply to sleepily drift with steak knives placed under my childhood pillows. One hand under the cushion which transcended into my pushing barber razors into my belt clips to carry. Post mortem depressive states of manipulated murder thoughts and their many mannerisms. I fingered the razor quite often to ensure it was still there. It was my security blanket, my over-stuffed teddy with the big glassy eyes not unlike my own at the time, my imaginary friend, and then my crutch. Deadly shallow weapons clutched in the hands of a 13-year-old pseudo-man. I had become wise in the ways of in-house gorilla warfare survival tactics. Abjected to hoarding sharpened objects under my mattress. And, in fact, I too regretted that.

My dad said it resembled the mark of a slave. The darkened flesh of healing places left after marred wounds of war. Scars loomed of lore; the stories I would tell at the age of twenty-five to the imperfect strangers which surrounded my essence. And the presence of more than simply one attested to adverse growing environments. The requirements of my manhood which I bested indeed. Razor bladed beatings. Razor blades and beatings. Razor blades my seeds. Perhaps I shouldn't recall it all. I wouldn't have killed them.

I believe my mother knew that her incessant instigations and her critical evaluations which swiftly replaced those hugs I'd come to depend upon caused as much fear as love. Just as we should do with God but this was no holy place.

My sanctuary fell into numerous notebooks using metaphored glyphics of which only I could decipher. A diary protected by the manner of its creation. I placed it before my parents and bade them to read. Each day I would ask and they would defy, denying their one chance at daily redemption. Not quite Christian philosophy. Their chance was conceded and I retrieved my writings some months later; their revival ended early. If, in fact, it had ever begun. If they attempted to understand their son would not be so hesitant with his hugs to this day. For so long I have too regretted that.

I seem to have gotten it mixed up along the way. Knowing little affection and thinking love was to be shown in bounty, I came to care for many women. That's what happens when men are not taught to show affection properly by parents. They become infected with various diseases which invade their mental state. That of which no amount of penicillin can cure. If only I had received my hugs I would not have received adorned glances by those scorned. A kind of hateful admiration of my innocence.

Seeking change I pledged the fraternal order of self-initiated manhood. Hazing myself with abstinence and painful reflections. I was the Ace, the Rock, my own DP and line brother. No other could have possibly endured those burning sands at my side. And so I walked alone. Healing wounds and tempering my skin and spirit. No weapon formed against me should prosper unless I allowed. My sisters were sadly the same sometimes. Yearning for daughters but I settled for giving birth to new diary chapters with Greek letters to define them. Walking those burning sands with myself at my side, I emerged with my head heavy and released those thoughts emerging into a fraternity of one.

I showed my parents my brand. My mother said that thou should not defile thine own temple. My dad said it resembled the mark of a slave. I soon questioned the mark quite harshly but no weapon formed against me should prosper unless allowed. And I've too regretted that. Of course, I never thought to preserve the tear as evidence against it. Bearing only scars etched onto a marrable surface.

Besides, what kind of fool tells another to cherish children? Could someone please, could someone please, could someonepleasepray?