Right to Write

The orangutan leads bleating sheep

to a cliff lip that stretches

over ignorant oblivion.

He scratches to pretend

he knows what flea bites

fee like, but we know he sleeps

on a cloud of Cleveland’s and Madison’s,

though he doesn’t know who they were, only

that he is better than them.

 

He shouts fake news with a sneer,

forcing all the sheep to hear

solid stupidity in their ears.

It rings like a jackhammer,

relief is not imminent,

and neither is salvation.

If he wants to know what persecution

feels like, he should just speak

in front of a mirror.

 

For he sees color as danger,

all colors represent something

he cannot understand.

He is a blank slate of petrified,

screaming to anyone who will hear

of the great old days

while whispering

of the k

k

k.

 

He screams fake news,

but the news answers him

with scandals

and body counts.

His numbers do not add up

when held up against the saving light

of an informed reality.

 

The orangutan would remove

our right to write,

our right to live,

our right to fabricated happiness.

The sheep will bleat,

and the crows will cackle.

Enchanted

Fairies buzz around your head,

lifting locks of silver and threading them to gold.

Fairies dance about your crown,

admiring themselves in your pair of cobalts.

The nymphs are singing

from under the floor;

a song of restless seduction.

The water is steep and you

have many miles to go,

before you sleep;

before you sleep.

 

You’ve walked in the woods

during a snowy evening.

Lights pass through trees;

a makeshift kaleidoscope of perspective.

There are those who have never seen light

but we don’t talk about them anymore

they live under floorboards and cellar doors

just the sight of those

yellow eyes gleaming in the absence of light

can send shivers down your spine.

 

There is no your kind,

or his kind

or Her Kind.

 

“Illegals” is not a noun.

 

There is our kind

and we have always been

right

here.

Natural Response

The beautiful brown girl with the

Heartbreaker eyes and full lips is relaying

The story of the rude man at the ferry

That lugged a glob

Of spit

Only an inch from her shoe.

“That’s disgusting.”

A resounding chorus from all who were listening

Until the white lady with the

“May I speak to your MAN-A-GER” haircut

Rolls her eyes.

“You know who are really disgusting?

Those fucking ‘GINESE’ people.

They should go back where they came from,

Instead of pissing on our WALLS

And speaking their CHING CHONG CHANG.”

Miss, I’ll have you know,

That my CHING CHONG CHANG is

A play on Broadway,

While your BADA BING BADA BOOM

Is reality television for the inbred.

My yellow skin is tougher than your lily petals.

My squinty eyes see more than your baby blues.

And my “quiet” mouth is at least able to

Correctly pronounce the name

Of the country

You can thank for most of the things

You waste your ‘MERICAN money on.