Death Boy

It was before the acid kicked in,
before the switch from monochrome to kaleidoscope.
Suburbia was still secure and safe, laces straight.

Beneath a voltage sky of fireflies,
stars spilled golden in sweet breezes.
I turned 9 that summer in 65, crewcut clean
though I knew a few curse words, discerned a couple centerfolds.
Testing my curfew on the curb outside our split-level,
digging street tar with a stick, dreaming of a blue Schwinn Sting-Ray
and finding a face in the moon (I still watched cartoons).

Some unseen shift occurred,
not cognitive conclusion, but the instinctive awakening
of a whispering cellar dweller settled in a chakra.
Squirming in the growing grip of bone finger fear,
I found no comfort in the streetlight,
so I dashed to our house, ran to my room,
closed tight the door, but it was already there.

I now knew that everything,
                                        everything must die.