I am my father's eyes
cold like the steel edge between my fingers
warm flesh that contrasts strangely with the numb red of my
childhood scars and the dull blues and blacks of
daily life
stolen images and charcol colored murals that reflect off the bark
as the roots reach back behind my pink-tinged eyelids
from the sparkling brown of the richest soil in New England
back to the center of me,
the place where I frequently and conviently forget
that which burdens me so

I am my mother's thought
some preconceived notion of existance and
dutiful reproduction
disguised as an accident and a beast of burden
suspected of trickery and the theiving of youth and patience
tolerated with impersonal agressive tenderness
that contradicts logic and tips the chemical scales
of the mind and taints that brilliant and fragile thing
with the blasphemous thought of independence

I am my grandfather's ancestors
stolen from the innocense and security of what could
have been called home and chained to a
massive force of conformatism
a slave to the cause in which I strive desperately to be liberated of
dancing on the bars of my cotton cage
biding time and pursuing what I beileve could be defined as infinitism

I am my grandmother's youth
a pyschadelic forrest of bad choices and no regrets
that bleeds with the colors of chaos and risk
with trees of tangerine and skies of marmalade
that remain constant in that they are ever-changing