How do I fit into this money country?
My mother used to starch my Dickies so they would
stand up on their own.
My father compares the creases in Palestinian and Israeli newspapers
to find some truth,
My wife wants to teach the homeless
how to farm.
I want to go to the South and paint the Klan’s sheets black.
Can you imagine the black sheets burning
crosses, babbling their way across the bible belt?
Plato did not count on polarized Ray Bans and sunblock, and there was no
Magicians Code of Secrecy in Nazi Germany.
We used to squat, throwing cards in a pile, speculating drug sales and skipping school like stones in man-made ponds.
Across town ten minutes east, 31-flavored neighborhoods look into
monochrome country clubs
that hide the sun in their privatized antres.
Sisyphus waves we bulldoze caves closed, scraping away at country clubs baroque gates.
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