the post standard solution
if i can keep this reprehensible streak going,
nothing is my fault. ive been around
enough pleasant white people to know
apologizing for the boy i dont love,
and the marks i asked him to leave,
is cleaner than tasking myself defective.
behind every fuckup is a human-person
with their ceaseless wiring and corners.
bring up the props. please,
find my teary eyes and misfired blues /
someone to take me
and my manufactured guilt toward home.
after the whole AIDS thing,
we confused people cleaning our shit
with love. and the bigger problem?
we werent totally wrong.
we aint all the way live.
our standard of being is post standard
and difficult to chew, like a taffeta broth.
if i can stay mostly sober, no one will kick the glitter
out of me.
thats our proof of an undisputed god: and why i dream
of a straight white boogieman.
and damn is he useful: a reliable Vishnu, rocking Lacoste
and brassy knuckles. a specter to break me,
to leave me reforming and slightly good.
theres nothing like a fake doctors note even if you still have cancer.
this is all to say: thanks white america, i can do meth on a wednesday
and chalk it to trauma.
i can get chalked out and bloodstained.
sometimes nostalgia is a reason
to lock your doors.
sometimes rewatching Birth of a Nation is the only way
to quell my own impeachment. this cancer
of fists in my belly is beating me silly,
beating me better, filing work orders, repairing my quilted ceilings.
but no matter, i can still reach out and get damaged.
the nice part about this place (praise, oh praise, plymouth)
is that if you really want to miss work,
just get sick.
you only need stay out long enough to catch something.
|Copyright © 1999 – 2019 Juked|