‘such singing’s going on in the streets-

the people look like flowers at last’

 

tiny arms like unbaked bread sit silt-like sodden in drains and gutters

sun-dried skin and powder bones peel back to reveal great orchids

blooming, shooting from sockets and cages and tiny feet bound

with industrial strength tape to fit tight into shoes now mass produced

by brothers and sisters still hairless and wild and i stand at a corner

and hear great men tell me that things have changed while america the great stands

(rifle)

stock still over the mounds of queers and blacks unloading round after round

of steel and flint into the open eyes of the silently outraged,

now on the television, i watch a man covered in glue

thrusting dollar notes into his already swollen

underpants when suddenly he pulses and convulses,

screams and shits,

roses burst forth from his

every pore until he can

bloom no more

and now the host

of the show is

telling him

he has lost,

lost the fight

that he could

never hope to

win

 

 

and i get up and water the roses with my tears.