So its still morning in my youth,
the sun is getting warm,
and raising slightly higher than
what feels comfortable
in the unfamiliar morning in my youth.
and the grass leaves
are rising a little higher
in the still morning in my youth
and its growing older
a little older than
what feels relieving
to your brows,
which wrinkle and start to tire
in the chill morning in my youth
and these new people,
seem less exciting now,
words of wisdom
spew words of shit
and seem far less provacative
on the uncreative morning of my youth.
And tiresome wires grow
likes weeds of what
I knew as loads
and barrels of
grass, as it was known
before we lost
our land our minds
to regionalism
and the no go
no good war prophet
o-zone and sand
and blood gas
and tear gas eco-blast all seems
to cry into slump baths
machine gun economics
and battle field politics
replace
the comfort
and the passion
of the early morning in my youth;
but I saw a picture
of a boy who looked just like me in my youth
whose eyes were
like the diamonds of the cool,
clearest blue waters
in progessive
fixer-up photo-opportunity
cities; American T-shirts
on African children;
with my face on his body,
I never knew the Mets had beaten the Yankees
in the 2000 Subway Series,
but he wasn't sure what a Subway was;
but he explain what beaten was,
and beaten just once,
as beaten was.

Half past one,
on this mid-day afternoon.