Tom
Sawyer re-dux
I
was baptized
an
onward Christian soldier
fed
demonizing sermons to mount
my
white washing lies and lines
to
stay behind cross killing time
I
am escape-climbing up
lady
liberty’s skirt for a better view
with
a clean stem, a handful of rock
and
a fresh lighter
I
am the body sacrifice
the
payment of grain
for
rice fields or at least
what
are called tidal basin cemeteries
I
am a broken clay nation
I
am an oven on the corner
I
am burning with pride
and
a desire not to fight back
I
am why you are
calling
a doctor
I
am the insides of files
I
am the rooted bureaus
of
investigation
I
know of nothing
that
gets in the way
empty
ghosting
my
Universe with
a
gold plated
reserve
system
shiny
notes
and
the barrel heat
huddled
around
weapons
firing
verbs,
nouns
and
blame
I
am pen to paper currency
imbibed
with the muscularity
of
what money promises
my
America is a steroid commodity
an
easy after market, bright lights, fine print hell
I
have given my soul for biggee fries
and
slurpees and everything in neon easy
spray
on hair and the worn leather
of
reworked slave labor
I
use blankets
to
hide my bruises
behind
smiles and muffled assurances
I
keep hearing my mind
say
shut the fuck up Edward
turn
yourself down
no
one will listen
to
mad men anymore
just
bite the cyanide
put
a bullet where you decide things
don’t
try to Love your way
out
of this
that
only works in the movies
try
potatoes, small ones
beans
too perhaps
sneakers
up on the wire
I
knew that once for sale
is
always for sale and once
I’ve
gathered enough stones
to
sink my body
into
the rivers
and
under the streets
bearing
all the weight
of
this world that I am
just
another lost soul
swimming
in
I
won’t sell any or use any product
that
doesn’t alleviate
my
own humanity’s malaise
the
phased out part
of
my flesh and blood
I’ve
been sent into
tribal
little neighborhoods
across
continents and oceans
with
ruddy skin too
the
asteroids come nearly every day now
and
to be saved from their calamity for sure
we
must pray but does that make Love
any
more or less valuable when it has become
just
a word for a day in February,
in
America, chocolates and roses sometimes too
are
sermons underneath the noise
the
ones I always hear
on
the way to getting high
two
hands on the wheel
tapping
out the rhythm of the road
and
not looking anywhere but into
how
the brightest lights
can
help me, ignore pain
painting
fences against
what
weathers me
past my prime
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