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.

 


Last Day by Cam MacDonald

August 13, 2010

I’m a little too sick or anxious to write today so I am posting a poem from my friend Cam MacDonald. It’s about . . .you figure it out.

Last Day?

What will happen tomorrow
Will it be tomorrow or some other day
After waiting 159 days it doesn’t feel real
Caught up in a Sweep
profiled for being the best
punished for 14 year old sins
Here I await fiending like a junkie
scanning the headlights for the Man
keys jingle and doors slam

So many days morphed into right now
So much pain and boredom
distilled into to each into each moment
The small hope of small freedom
is all that feeds me
My cell is real in its filthy haphazardness
and in its protection from the outside

Its more real than but no less restricting
than all the other imposed by me
and those I let imposed on me
the Clinic with its liquid handcuffs
the junk with its sickness and never ending hunger
the promise of riches tomorrow but never today
the women who I won’t let love me
the son who I love and loves me
the darkside who always wins
the people I hate for being human
but most of all myself for being so selfish

So right so wrong but always doomed
Soon some shitbag will crack my cell
and tell me to pack it up
and then the real sentence starts
but will the small hope
still lingering in the smell of spring earth
and a girls perfume and…….

Art by Rich Hillen Jr 2000


%d bloggers like this: