Tagged: America

It’s Only Natural

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a stone does not mean to be cruel
contained in arrogance
it just is


nations perpetually christened
in genocide
but they must be


domineering husbands
and the bartender
has a fat lip
but she has to


sacrifice the women,
the children
anything
for the survival
of the white man.

the oligarchy has finished eating
kind enough
to feed us the crust
embezzled with the phlegm
of each of their celestial
C.E.O.s

multi colored
multi variables
some reek of mustard gas
some are only stale,
with cyanide following,


silent
others biZzare shades and huEs
anti freeze: bright blue
but finally another knot in my stomach
and the sweet taste in my mouth.

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Stuck in Another Shadow

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I come to realize that we’re all Matryoshka dolls doing what we can to degrade the people around us, to feel a millimeter taller than our predecessor. I suppose that’s progress: grades painted in the blood of the people, but the test was in a language we can’t read. The door is barred. We’re all tired. We want to go home. There’s no end in sight. Didn’t hear talk of an end. It just rattles misshapen and defeated as if bureaucracy were a natural state.

The Blood’s Still Dry

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I am the Tambourine man

Wildly dancing in the street

For the change falling on the sidewalk

Through the hole in your pocket

I am the clown

With the flattened, depressed face paint

Preying off of the sympathy

Of the man in

Heaven’s dirty backalley

I am the hateful damned

Makin minute fractions of your minimum wage

And still fighting equal pay

And dem liberal’s ideas of

equality.

I am the American Soldier

Alone and lost in the dense forest

Rifle pointed with the barrel in my chest

And the bayonet penetrating my soul

I am the slot machine

Putting in quarters

Winning words, flowing from my bowels

But this poem isn’t it

I didn’t win the jackpot today

My 648th Rodeo

What hot button topic
Headlines the news today?
While the slaughter sweat shops
Still maintain the nets
Stopping the depressed
From the suicide
Their entitled to.

What words anger the privileged?
What stops the bagels from being cut?
The coffee from being hot?
While woman are burned alive
Witches with the witchcraft
Of an independent thought.

What child can’t afford the new game system?
While children in third world countries
March endless miles
To get an education
Surviving off of thimbles
Of dirty drinking water

You’re right when you say
We need to help ourselves before we help others
Take it from the creator
We’ve been high and dry for centuries
While he’s working on his celestial corvette.

Why help the unfortunate
The weak
When you can empower
The strong?

For the top 1% will never have enough of our money
And the bottom 99%
Can never starve enough
When we’re eating our children to survive
We must remember to save
The best cuts of meat
For the corporate head

I’ll work myself to death
A corpse mashing the keyboard
Before I’m through

Dennis Cooper

I would never be a gay man
who wrote “The Tenderness of Wolves”
Afraid of obscenity
running frantic
from the most pleasurable
essence of
reality

I’d title the book as my home address
tell them to
“Send semen taste samples
and a self addressed envelope

let the best worship
pepperoni grease scrotum
and ejaculate on the hour

Painting supple,
eager faces
a nice eggshell white.

It’s not a matter of self control
to keep from embarassment

It’s a matter of pulling her pigtails
cock assaulting
back of the throat
pink flesh

tying them
strangling sack

and broadcasting
the nation’s daughter’s facial
in times square

The face marked with
smug pride

you may strive
to be a bore
but I’ll be the nation’s
shameful secret

Uncle Sam’s
throbbing
menace

Kingdom

What segregation
Can they enforce through media made minds?
While sweat shops slaughter
and maintain the nets
the “self empowered”
stopping the migrant commodity
from stirring up revolutions;
committing suicide

What words enrage the privileged
What keeps the coffee from the hot plate?
While women are charred
Prosecuted for the witchcraft
Of independent, third degree, thought.

Pity the child that can’t afford the pocket computers
While children in Africa
March barefoot miles
To survive off of thimbles
Of fetid water

help ourselves before we help others
Take it from the creator
We’ve been on our own for centuries
While he’s working on the down payment
For his corvette in the clouds

Why help those birthed in dysentery
From first world waste
When you can empower
The Gods of men

For the top 1% will never be “rich”
And the bottom 99%
Can never starve enough
When we’re eating our children to survive
We must remember
to save the best cuts of meat
For them

I’ll work myself to death
A corpse mashing the keyboard

And my Kingdom
Of Carbon Dioxide
The walls of
The victims of poverty
Will only
Grow.

Crossing the Delaware

Historical Fiction of Crossing the Delaware.

They shall be deep in slumber with drink and the festivities of the night before. God will be forgiving for the turmoil we suffer through on his son’s date of birth, for it is in his name that we fight and it will be in his name that we take back the Jerseys. It’s their location in Trenton that puts them at such a disadvantage. They rest in open plains, with little more than an outpost or two to keep them under cover from the wrath of our muskets.
-General Washington

December 25, 1776

We reside on the wrong side of the Delaware. I fear that this may soon be the end of the American colonies. The snow lies like a thick wool blanket across the landscape. It’s in a stark contrast with our dark uniforms. It’s a good thing that we’re arriving late within the night, for we’d be seen from miles away in daylight. I seriously doubt the thickets of sugar maples and paper birches would give us much cover from the rain of Hessian gunfire. The landscape is radiant white, barren. A desert of snow violated only by our infantry’s steps.

We’ve lost much of the front, retreating into Pennsylvania, I grow doubtful and weary hearted. I’ve seen many men lost in battle and heard of many more lost at Washington’s command. Maybe Washington isn’t the king of the frontier that I was once so sure he was. As he trudges through the snow, firing up steep mountainsides, his coy expression hints at a greater sense of purpose. We may lack confidence in ourselves, but Washington leaves no hints of discouragement.

We’ve lost all of Jersey, and Manhattan.

Even if we are finished serving on the first. We need a general that will make the most out of the time he is given. Especially when the future looks so bleak.

There’s fifty four hundred of us, give or take the few that have been left behind off the trailside. Many of us are walking with only rags to cover our feet. Many of us won’t make it to see 1777, but I must have trust in Washington.

I hope that on the day of Christ’s birth God is merciful to the American army. The cold claims another victim. The vacant expression on his face is only seen in glimpses as we pass. The American troops seem to diminish before we even taste the scorn of battle.

I’ve seen several men blue at the knees, walking with slivers of what was once their feet. Once they regain feeling they will ache. They will pray for death. I suspect many will never walk again. We split up, an attempt to flank the Hessian army, but now that we’ve reached the raging mouth of the Delaware, the three thousand or so soldiers that separated are nowhere to be seen. Maybe they’re cowards, or wise, and have abandoned their country with nothing in mind but their own survival.

I see another layer of earth scraped from the shore. The sand crumbling into nothing. It could sweep you away before you’ve realized you’ve left the ground. The clashing waves are reminiscent of ancient Trojan warriors colliding in battle. The sky is grey and the river looks daunting. No, the river is impossible. I no longer fear that the Hessian Mercenaries will have my scalp like the salvages. Trees erode away on the coast. They’re contorted and bowed, leaning away from the angry waters. They too fear the consequence of Nature’s temper. This river will be the death of me. As we proceed closer to the water, it fluctuates, reaching out of the rapids and threatening to swallow the battalion whole. I day-dream of our tattered bodies blue and bloated, floating down the river like the chunks of ice thrashing against jagged rock. Some claim to be able to walk across when the waters are calm, but the menacing blues allude to unknown depths. The deeper the water, the darker it appears. Hell must be an unsightly shade of black.

The first man who falls in this river won’t make it to see the last man cross. It’s the cold that we’re at war with, not the British, not the Hessians, but the whimpering heartbeat snuffed by Christmas frost. It’s unfortunate to think so, but maybe God isn’t on our side.

The boat is rickety at best. The paneling in the bottom of the dingy is warped and malformed. It seems we would have a better chance skipping across lily pads then taking our chances in these poorly constructed coffins. The current is treacherous and swallows men like the family at a thanksgiving feast. We arrive in Jersey at 3 A.m. Three hours after we were supposed to. General Washington rides up and down the lines encouraging us for battle, snot dribling down the horses nose and spit splattering our faces as he passes. If he really wanted to inspire us he’d get off of his horse and join us. He’d be bootless turning the snow shades of red with the blood from his frayed feet.

By the time we marched the nine miles from where we had crossed the Delaware (the boat crossing deviating from the intended course greatly) the sun had risen half an hour before. We couldn’t tell if the sky was pink with the rising sun, or the blood soon to come.
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As we approach the Hessians we can see them in a thick haze. Many are still sleeping, leaning against the other soldiers in the snow, reeking of moonshine. The battleground is littered with low lying shrubs and rivulets from old farm fields.Strategically they were at a loss. They rested in the open. If we didn’t know better we would have thought that it was a band of drunks and bums celebrating Christ’s birth in the frigid snow. Cowering behind the few houses and their howitzers, there wasn’t much they could do.

While some lunged for their weapons, General Johann Rall screamed out to his men.The plumes of smoke emitted from the edge of each musket. It was sporadic, but with meaning like a meteor shower confused for shooting stars. I counted a total of six shots fired before we could see their white hankies tied to the end of some twigs they scrounged from their splintered cover. They were pel-mel, and destined for the end. There wasn’t much blood shed, but enough to keep the majority of the Hessians at bay. I could see one, too young for battle, wandering aimlessly around his fallen brothers. He knelt down to a Hessian, brushing the hair plastered to the Hessian’s face out of his eyes and in a moment he was shot down. He lays in the snow twitching, and moments later his corpse was still. Grown men cried for their mothers and waited for the silence of defeat. We wounded General Johann Rall and at the end of the day we suffered from few deaths. We left Trenton on our conquest with twelve hundred prisoners of war and we left the ones too wounded to walk to bear with the cold. If we only got our hands on an onslaught of red coats. We’d show them what a resistance really looks like.

Their accents were thick like cement yet to be mixed, complete with sedimentary surprises and untrained turns of phrase. Later we overheard one of the Hessians who said that Rall asked for reinforcements from General James Grant in broken English, but was rejected. The English never did think much of us, maybe now they’d take us a bit more seriously.

Sincerely,
Corporal Saunders.

Prostitution: A different means to fame

There is a poor boy behind the counter
I tell him what I want
How I want it
And by the next day
It’s carved into the inside of the eyelids
Tatted in bright red ink,
To make sure he never forgets my name

He’ll be the only one to remember
He’ll be the only one to know I’m famous

He makes it for me,
I’ll eat enough to make this ass
In torn daisy dukes
To not look good,
after a night of perspiration
When you’re alone
And it’s 7 in the morning,