I've never done good thingsI've never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue
Want an axe to break the ice
Want to come down right now
It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls. He was awake. He would rub his fingers over the mesh of his port-a-crib. Faster and faster, he would rub until his fingers burned from the friction and his senses ran into overdrive. He would hesitate for a moment and let those feelings pass, then rub again, over and over and over. If he stopped rubbing everything would stop. There was nobody to talk to him. There was nothing in the crib except a soiled blanket. There used to be a yellow and pink stuffed bear as well. Like the ones won at a carnival. But he had thrown that out days ago and nobody had placed it back in the crib with him. The silence was too much of a void so he would rub and rub and rub. The mesh wove patterns of light as his fingers raced back and forth. Millions of rays played a frantic game of light and shadow. Sometimes he would get lost in them. He could get so involved that he would just stare at the little holes. Those were the best times. It was like he wasn’t even there.
A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that
Sometimes he would scream. There was delicious times where he found his voice. He would sound loud and louder. The air would expel from his lungs. His muscles would tense with the joy of it all. It wasn’t for any sort of purpose. Just to sound was enough. The volume was ecstasy in his ears. He could push everything else away with the sound. He would close his eyes tight and a torrent of white and black spots would dance in the darkness behind his eyes. The sound would sometimes bring something else. Something beautiful or painful. It was only a matter of time. It all comes down to Cheerios and those four walls.
I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you
I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you
Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a big monkey bird
And I'm busting up my brains for the words
Sometimes she would come. Staggering with eyes closed from light and pain. Heavy hands would land on the frayed edges of his port-a-crib. She would regard him and he her. If only he could stop screaming for a moment. But he found that he could not. He could just scream and scream. Sometimes she would tell him to shut the fuck up. Sometimes she would hit him. It made no difference. The screams would come from somewhere inside of him. They were as regular as breathing and as normal as his beating heart. There were the moments of silence. Sometimes a hit would come so hard that screaming was impossible from the incredible jar of the strike and the spots in his vision would become swirling stars and dazzling explosions of sharp pain. After, there was a tingling numbness as he sucked in air, Though not enough for another scream. Focus came back as often as it did not. When it did, she was gone. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more
Sometimes when she came it was different. She would coo and pick him up. His body would tense against her touch. So much in his little body wanted to press into her. To feel her skin. To be close to her. There was something in her touch that repelled him as much as it drew him. He found himself fighting against her, pulling at her hair, biting her. Sometimes she would throw him back into the crib and be gone again. Sometimes she would place him on the ground on his back. She would take off his foul and dripping diaper, clean him and put on a new one. She would tell him that he smelled like shit. She would say he was disgusting. She would tell him she wished he was dead. He couldn’t look into her eyes. There was so much he didn’t like to see there. He would lay on the floor, let her clean him, avoid her eyes and concentrate on the touch. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Sometimes he would drop. Legs just didn’t work after awhile. He would lay very still and look toward the ceiling as it spun and spun and spun. She would lounge on the couch and pick her nose. Sometimes she would forget to take the needle out of her arm and it would bob with the motion of her hands. She stared and stared, smiling all the time, nothing behind her eyes. He would cry sometimes. The pain would make him cry. There was something missing. She would drift off the couch and move to the kitchen as if in a dream. She would get the yellow box and float back toward him. Then the rain would come. Small tan circles poured into the crib, bouncing off his face, arms and body. He would open his mouth and some would drop in. They crunched when he worked his jaw. Delicious. Salvation. He would crawl through his stained and foul crib and eat every one he found. Sometimes she would only drop in a little. The best times where when the yellow box would fall from her fingers completely and it would all be his. He would sleep after eating. When he awoke, he found his legs worked again and he could stand up.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
“I have to shit,” She said. “Oh, man I have to shit so bad. Where’s the fucking bathroom? I have to get to the fucking bathroom.” She stood up and wobbled grotesquely, bumping against the wall as she staggered to the bathroom. “Shut the fuck up,” The man would say. “You’re just coming unplugged from all that shit you do. It has to happen sometime.” The man laughed and laughed. The child rubbed my fingers over the mesh and watched her. “Go and get some more shit,” She said. “I think I will,” The man said. “I don’t want to be around when you take a super dump anyway.” He walked out of the house and closed the door. She pulled her pants down and slumped onto the toilet and shuddered. The child rubbed the mesh on the port-a-crib. The child tried to leave and get lost in the light, but it wouldn’t let him. He had to watch. He had to be there. “Oh, shit. Holy shit,” She said. She lifted her body off the toilet and it tensed as her body shoved forward. A baby dropped from her vagina, cradled in a wet weave of afterbirth. The tiny body thumped on the bathroom tile. She stood there looking down at the baby. The umbilical cord snaked into her. She pulled on it like it could be unplugged from her body. The tiny baby cried. So did she. All of a sudden the flickering light from the mesh caught The child’s eye and he was lost in the sparkling light. He could feel the heat from his fingers rubbing back and forth, faster and faster. It all comes down to Cheerios and these four walls.
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget