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Southern Uprising |
by KJ
O, some other hypocritical, suburb cosmo & I piffled on about our whereabouts...
"I reside on a street of obsessive front lawns & Romantic
suburban homes that sit one financially eternal mile away
from the clogged, pale-dirt apartment complexes of Hispanic
people who live there anyway, but that is fucked up to say."
long before the thought took its rightful, preordained spot
i viewed an American idolizing ingénue with her howling tot.
oh suburbia, I cannot genuflect, but I can reflect.
suburbia: a sick, emotional ghetto to be cured with Costco.
suburbia: where a family might watch itself on TV.
suburbia: bad shampoo from the mail, to you.
the ingénue stuffs trusty funds for the tot's education.
the ingénue stuffs her face with all styles of confection.
the ingénue stuffs her stuff into stuff to open up stuffy rooms.
[we all stuff stuff into stuff like live pharaohs in prefab tombs.]
but, i won't spend another dime if it means new photos of suburban wombs.
because rage bathes
my body when i hear
the skirling yips
skip from the lips
of some nippy dog
when womb & groom
show in a car that
looks very swollen.
& only a giant yes
to candid old rage
yields my stomach
for the styles of
incessant kicking
needed to rupture
the whole bloated,
bulimic monstrosity.
i wish the immigrants fury enough to pour out cups of wrathful horchata.
i wish for floggings from rose vendors on highways: humanity as piñata.
i wish the Virgin of Guadalupe would foot stomp every last mazda miata.
i wish the laborers, the immigrants, & LA's poor formed one motley armada.
"yeah," piffled the other cosmo.
"it won't happen...not tomorrow
& not today. they'll always pay
for Uncle Sam's latest toupee.
most U.S. homes want our wants.
even they want what we want,
but, that is fucked up to say."
KJ likes to make poems a lot.
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