Hébéphrénique

My 22nd Birthday was at a funeral.
A Great-Uncle’s death, he left behind some land.
I was washing to Winter’s shore from tides of psychosis
and wept in the car for all the wrong reasons.

A Great-Uncle’s death left behind some land;
Dad planned to hole up from the gov’t out there
as I wept in the car for all the wrong reasons—
It seemed the FBI was getting back at me

or Dad’s plan to hole up from the gov’t out there;
he spit once at trampled mud amid cigarillo puffs,
so it seemed (the FBI was getting back at me).
A long-lost cousin showed, shunned for how he loved.

Dad spit once at trampled mud amid cigarillo puffs
from the boyhood of Joyce or Taylor Swift’s pomp.
A long-lost cousin showed, shunned for how he loved—
Dad said “just get over yourself.”

From the boyhood of Joyce or Taylor Swift’s pomp
I was washing to Winter’s shore from tides of psychosis
and Dad said “just get over yourself”—
my 22nd Birthday was at a funeral.

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About the Author

Laurence Foshee is a Tulsa, Oklahoman with poetry and prose in Dragon Poet Review, The Drabble, The Tulsa Review, and a forthcoming Oklahoma anthology honoring the memory of The Greenwood District. When not reading and writing poetry, his work in patient transport during the entire first year of the Covid-19 pandemic has driven him to resume pre-health studies and pursue osteopathic medicine. He hopes to find commonalities in helping others within these disparate, higher callings.

Laurence Foshee
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