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 © 1999-2017 Juked