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The Black-Eyed Sicilian

Poetry By: Patricia McGurk Martin
Memoir



The Black-Eyed Sicilian - by 2012 Patricia L. McGurk (Martin Hearst Himmler Rothschild) -

I saw a sweet boy with black eyes and white skin today, an American boy with perhaps a grandfather watching over him. Passing me with a polite nod respectful already a leader with his confident chin nodding. Innocent but aware already of dubious realities in Tenley Circle, Washington DC. Perhaps he was me, I thought, maligned so young.

Maybe I am the Black-Eyed Sicilian I told Interpol during the torture last year but I am not a criminal nor a mob nor mafia as they tortured me. I thought I was a child, I said. Please do not continue hurting me, I cried out.

Or a Black-eyed Susan an American wildflower blowing on some lonely hill.

It was a semi-vegetative state with psychotropics through my childhood drugged in horrible jails that were mental beyond the mesh screened windows. I lived both as a child and an adult all along, a monarch always the adult never the child.

Maybe I am a black-eyed Junco, a pretty bird flying in the daylight over Tenley Circle, Washington DC.

Or a dark-eyed Nazi surrounded by shadows, sitting and waiting for another soul-split. Perhaps I won't enter the shadows with him nor the sunlight.

The black priest kept putting his hand on my forehead, blessing me while he murdered me publicly. I AM A POPE I SCREAMED YOU CANNOT BLESS ME.

Maybe I am a black-eyed Sicilian after all, the nobody no one knows homeless in my own land my own country I built that I have left for the raven-filled skies - no longer the American writer as ritual societal degradation death is too high a price to pay.

The Desert Owl waits on the roof.






Patricia McGurk Hearst Himmler
patm150@yahoo.com
pmcgurkmartin@yahoo.com



Submitted:Jan 30, 2012    Reads: 8    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   




The Black-Eyed Sicilian - by 2012 Patricia L. McGurk (Martin Hearst Himmler Rothschild) -

I saw a sweet boy with black eyes and white skin today, an American boy with perhaps a grandfather watching over him. Passing me with a polite nod respectful already a leader with his confident chin nodding. Innocent but aware already of dubious realities in Tenley Circle, Washington DC. Perhaps he was me, I thought, maligned so young.

Maybe I am the Black-Eyed Sicilian I told Interpol during the torture last year but I am not a criminal nor a mob nor mafia as they tortured me. I thought I was a child, I said. Please do not continue hurting me, I cried out.

Or a Black-eyed Susan an American wildflower blowing on some lonely hill.

It was a semi-vegetative state with psychotropics through my childhood drugged in horrible jails that were mental beyond the mesh screened windows. I lived both as a child and an adult all along, a monarch always the adult never the child.

Maybe I am a black-eyed Junco, a pretty bird flying in the daylight over Tenley Circle, Washington DC.

Or a dark-eyed Nazi surrounded by shadows, sitting and waiting for another soul-split. Perhaps I won't enter the shadows with him nor the sunlight.

The black priest kept putting his hand on my forehead, blessing me while he murdered me publicly. I AM A POPE I SCREAMED YOU CANNOT BLESS ME.

Maybe I am a black-eyed Sicilian after all, the nobody no one knows homeless in my own land my own country I built that I have left for the raven-filled skies - no longer the American writer as ritual societal degradation death is too high a price to pay.

The Desert Owl waits on the roof.


Patricia McGurk Hearst Himmler
patm150@yahoo.com
pmcgurkmartin@yahoo.com





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