Ed-gar

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some people tell me
I’m disturbed
and I would listen
to them but it
would only make
them right.

my neighbor is an
old immigrant
within his first days
he lost his words
it took him two decades
to get them back.

He washes his
hands in grease.

I was a ball outside
that early half of the day
when he crawled on fours
waving his cries like a hand
in a tea drinking language
I cooked and ate his words
and I wrote them on black
ink with white paper:
I miss my mother

Ed-gar was my
neighbor’s name
who spoke in
disfigured
pronunciations
that turned
women off and gave
his consumerist naivety
away to car salesmen

and so he asked
for my company
when he bought his
truck to start a
painting business
and when we got home
Edga-r’s mother
was disfigured as much as
his words and dreams
in the bed of his pickup
where nothing sleeps
but old parts to a once
working machine.

(and there was no explanation for this)

E-dgar weeps.
His accent is lost and
his words too.
Frigid, night
Edga’r’s heat
quit working
(some say his heart as well)
for no reason

I leave E!dgar
in his goose bumps.
The broken furnace
could not be repaired
as Ed&gar could
no longer speak
intelligible words
except blabbers of
a child, calling for
assistance of their
untrained bodies.

Edg.ar never decided
to hang himself
instead he held hopes
he would die
before the great
explosion could
be made into pain.

E—dg-ar missed.
Rolling towards him was
a wheelchair.
I never saw Ed-gar again.





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ALM007 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
May 23, 2012 at 10:39 pm
hm really interesting, your writing is really unique - like the variations of Edgar's name pronounciations
 
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