January 10, 2013

becky thatcher and what I do, very thirsty, for moist regard...

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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