Tag Archives: capital

Unknown's avatar

My mothers son

by

Sitting on the balcony of a mega complex;

Looking down at the houses still holding out.

I think my father missed prison.

I miss you with every shattered, lonely atom in my body.

How could you?

How could you break me into a shape you have no use for?

In the eye of an empire,

With traumas as vast and varied

As it’s violences;

I will my body to accept change as the only constant

I will myself not to become a martyr

to the despair and hedonia

that materializes out of the shadows and concrete of this place.

I will myself not to internalize the way the allostatic load splinters my elbows.

I will myself to believe people

When they tell me who they are

My father missed prison more than he loved my mother.

I will this new body not to be his son.

Unknown's avatar

in another life you were better

by

Rod Serling haunts me;

The way my father intended.






You leave copies of bell hooks out when we fight;





While your boyfriend calls me a pussy. 





In another life you were better;





In another life we were better.










I owe the people $128.





You owe some broken girl-child from the mountains everything.










You of all people were supposed to understand me.





You gave me every book about myself that you have never read 










I watch the tendrils of apathy and capital coil;





You could not hold the pain of a widow if she payed you 








		
	
			

	
	


				
					



	

		
			Unknown's avatar		

		
Labor Shortage in Omelas


				

			 by 		

			


		

		

I will myself to hold the taste of this failure in my mouth.
Just one more flavor my white parents did not know how to cook with.





I smother the bitterness of asparagus and your contempt in garlic and white wine.





if god where my dinner guest;

He would ask me which brown woman we owed for tonight’s spice blend;
He would remind me that none of us have ever lived anywhere but Omelas;
He would remember how the acid of the lemon juice cut through the grease and your vitriol.





There is no violence or abuse
This sous chef pretending to be a line cook; did not teach me how to plate.





Salt. Fat. Acid. 
I have always held my own magic.