Ritalin Slave sits cross and empty with the vacancy
cleared above his head on the way to daylight in black,
and sleeps in the fires of nighttime dead
and keeps himself lying low in the grass
of someone else’s yard—
Hard pressed with a nose to the ground
he’s begging for sound anywhere it can be found,
whether it be from the airplanes in the clouds
or in the patience of playground crowds.
The wind tempts and teases clear beyond the canteen
where his head hangs down as if to bow to passing lights
in the hall of hearts and passerby gangs
who used to pave the halls clean of fistfights
and now never say a word
heard by anyone who isn’t already caught
breaking the world and belting any to be fought
—when their kicking and screaming brought
the wild child down to give him what he got.
He feels his console try to heal his brain as if by chains
—the will to fly as all kids do when stuck in state
but without an escape or a backyard hide
when his veins are frozen solid as slate
and his torrents drained like
when the city pool's gone placid cold
and his body's running stiff and not so bold
to even grip his soul as the world takes hold
on his throat to get him to sit and fold.
His blood ran hot beneath his flesh when he ripped
the coils on his heart from the machine keeping him fresh
like a hunk of meat in a freezer a world apart—
just a junk embryo in for his skin mesh,
sinning not and unborn—
Still unwarned like a rut boy with a hole
thrown through his guts suckling the bowl
for milk in his short days without his soul—
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