For my home town
Pass me by, morning. Morning of bitter sunlight and blue cars. Morning of glow over the orange hills of avocado and grape truths.
Another dawn to deal with. A dawn with tasteless cold cereal holding drowned souls, washing them on to the pavements, the turf, and the endless roads that lead to solitude chained fences and ever growing front lawns.
I walk to you under the stoplights that holds everyone and tells them to move faster or die faster, or even just waste away faster with their lives and the lives of others, as they listen and comply.
High, just so high. So high the bland grass with the petty signs of delusional vibrations that only shake the shins of those with pitch fork partners and acidic coughs in the solid air.
It surrounds the weight of us all. The pure true weight that moves us toward log cabins of teachers, the English women, the number speaking vice presidents and their marching bands of delight music for war, endless habitual unfairness, endless paper of sacred plain fields. Endless futures.
My queen doesn’t see this. My king doesn’t see. The piled monarchs of piled bodies, they don’t ever see this.
See the strings that aren’t tied, or wrapped, just hooked into skin and soul. Pulling and dragging forward marionettes of tears, dwelling innards, fucking turmoil, fucking uniforms that lead and don’t smile. See guns worn as crowns, snap shots displayed as insane year book dilemmas.
See the gargantuan holy oblivious tenement, so sure, so elliptical and sure, that it confides to us, the holy child of dank, relieving sloth, greed, underage sex, underage sodomy.
See the wax mermaids swimming in hell hot phallocentric, salacious, stew. See them bathing in it, in tight clothing, in the nude, with partners, and more partners. See them not laugh, see them turn downed.
See the cops beating the blind till they see awkward and askewed. They hold her up, as she pushes and licks them down. Kicks down their housing departments. Burns down their revenue of property tax pornography. Offers them abuse and strange tongue. See the cops tremble with fear, and fear they worship.
See the child become the hunted. The prey at last seen, touched, forced down paths of recklessness, unable light houses, the paper touch and shameful touch. See the child gone.
See the new American gangster. He’s proud to die for his country and country men. Much like the church going choir is proud, the relative is proud, elusive death is proud. See him export ash that makes the human child jingle, places human adolescence off the fucking map, and holds the human adult a hostage to itself. See the gangster beat the street, much like the cop, beat to the beat and raise la la land to a new way of living. Living in crack house jurisdictions, public pools of methamphetamine, fear mongering on walls and paint.
See the lovers joining turn into dust from the very beginning. Not knowing, not caring, only adding to the solution made to work one way but not the other. Adding to famine, pests, joy, and the same habitual unfairness. The same family tragedy that will undoubtedly occur to bastard children that come from foster farms to foster offices, to foster city halls, to foster drug dealers, foster alcoholics, and a fostered life.
I ask if this will change. That the sure, secluded wealthy man will follow through in rage from their golf courses and liberal tamed landscape backyards, jump over fences and show the gangster, the wives, our brothers and sisters, and the nuclear life a different posting of sharing and density that works. Tell me that the paper back writers of paper back bills and federal girders will jump out like super heroes and post up will, rationality, and something for our people. Something we can eat, and live off of.
My city, tell me i will survive the unfairness, the powerlessness, the void, and bondage of every other city, building, those in them, and all that they place upon altars of lost and claimed and lost again freedom.
That same great freedom i see in you.