In every non-tumultuous moment derived

There would be three of them

Where you could barely maintain your sanity.

For every minute of peace you stole

There would be ten

Where chaos would fuck you in dark corners

And all the open spaces

You like to stand in.


Born a bakers son

The Ides of March would never be the same

For Grace.

Only 18 years to teach him

All the labels they could smack on him.



“First you are a son

You must learn my able trade.

Then you are a man

And I’ll show you how they are made.


We all grew up Catholic

So on your knees you go

Guilt has to follow you everywhere

Be mindful of what you grow.


Then you are American

So you’ll need this list of rules

Don’t ever learn Geography

So every other country thinks we’re fools.


You can forget to make up your own mind

What your parents don’t teach you, media will

You open up your mind for a second

And suddenly it is nothing but a landfill.


You are white so you should climb the ladder fine

Make sure you check that box on every form

You’ll need to raise a family and have a job

To succumb to the vicious ‘norm.’


You will have to always act properly

Not like your Navy Crewmen.

Please be responsible about yourself

And try to forget that you are human.”