everybody is too busy reading each other's minds,
appearing hundreds of miles from their bodies and
refusing to decay after death; as it is, when you
think of me, I find that I, in turn, am thinking of you.
the film begins with a house and some blood on the doorstep
and the sound of a distant train disappearing across the moors
destination: unknown at this time
the only listener with his collar turned up against the damp night
Whether my path is ineffectual compared against
what justice I might sew if my strengths were applied elsewhere.
I convince myself with fear and escapefulness of
there is no pure good. No option only to heal or live as a clean breath in smoke.
i knew Sitting Bull before sitting pretty
and images of bareback warriors protecting the tribe lulled me to sleep in the thud of the wild mustangs hooves
i have crossed deserts, meadows, mountains, and oceans
to get away from my white (wo)man’s burden
Instead, we rainbowed the space― hung sexy lace.
I ordered Gitmo closed and asked for the extra clothes
to patch together a warmer wintery scene.
We clothed some homeless folks in Georgetown,
gave them three squares each and a jail house cell.
It becomes dark forever at 6.30
as I'm the only one to get off at my station,
warm train taking the light away
to stars. In the west, Passaic
rustles its winter waters in the leafless world
as I walk the resounding mile
and why should we not feel the fluster further
sensitize our oppression and fortunes
to understudies of undertakers and why should we not care
when they don't upstage us and why should we not fight in the streets
for the same fucking thing everyone fights in the streets for
kryptonite drive the light will change steel lines shadows shall
continually respond so make sure you keep your egg in morose
spin dizzy $1800 rent check made payable to cockroach
ambassador conversely each flea has 2 big beautiful eyes
The 30 year old cool kids are emptying their children and youth all over the parking lot. Dirty diapers without an owner that once belonged to their kids or maybe themselves, smelling like a hefty child support court story...
Whenever I wake from a bad dream, my murderer gives me homework. He’s there waiting. Not at the edge of the bed, as one might assume, with a hand resting calmly on my back, but sitting alone in the dim light of the kitchen.