America’s Asshole

January 15, 2012

 

I woke up inside America’s asshole. The curves of the genitals bounce and I feel them. Cry. No cry. I lick the squirrel’s tail with the leopard skin and howl at the Sunlight ripping me apart and sunglasses don’t help except if I let them but I don’t let them. I just sit and cry. No cry. Juggernauts of fur fall from the clear blue ceiling painted for you before you left me for a better Country.

 

Constipated America has me trapped. Anxiety and Seroquelian dreams. I’ll take my rest and panic anywhere I can get it. Pills. No more pills please!! I wait patiently for an answer. A fart. A rumble. Something. You. Sorry, no visitors up here down there. I’m tender and cold. I light a match to America’s colon only to see more darkness. Oh I wish I had a Magic 8 Ball. Medium. Ghost hunter. A smoke. Candy.

 

Drip, drip oh dearest America. I hear what’s going on outside this infernal sphincter of yours and laugh and cry. No cry. I’ll just sit and wait.

 


White Boy Day: A Poem

January 9, 2012

 

White boy trapped                      on a bus     on the first floor of

Social Services

On the second floor of                 Social Services

In the basement of

Social Services.          Too many people

 

Too much NOISE. NOISE. NOISE.

 

Black people hollering,

Hallowing in their phones and

At each other across

The over crowded diseased waiting room

Puerto Ricans speaking in tongues

So fast and loud it hurts         while the Mexicans Remain still watching their children

Jump from chair to chair to chair

Eloquently                              Annoyingly

 

Too much NOISE. NOISE. NOISE.

 

White people scream at their children

Children cry. Cry. Cry baby. Cry babies everywhere.

Every floor. Every waiting room.

On the first floor of                                         Social Services

On the second floor of

Social Services.

In the basement of               Social Services.

 

I try to hide in my books                  Hide in my head

I want to scream until I get relief

Relief when my name is called.

When I leave I walk speedily to the bus stop to face mre people waiting to

Overcrowd the bus and I get claustrophobic.

On the bus. My goal is to get off as soon as I can.

White boy trapped no longer.

Jumps off the bus several stops early and

I walk home almost in peace.

No muggers.

Just beggars.

“Gimme a cigarette?”

“Do you gots a quarter?”

I open the door to my home and feel relief and brief

FREEDOM.

I realize I am still a white boy trapped in

My own home

As the sun goes down.

At least there’s not much noise here.

 


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