there are trees on
my curtains,
black and white
spaghetti heads on forks bundled
like back packs on
street punks
their hats or guitar
cases on the ground begging for change; their imperfections from a
pedophile induced and fed middle class stigmata
breasts too small,
legs too skinny, legs too fat
breeding out the
imperfections like death camp exterminations
and experimentation
like you – to the
left
you – to the right
stacked in trains
led to mass graves
naked
their beautiful pale
tushes facing the sky
ass up, shot by
machine guns
the lucky ones
to suffocate beneath
beautiful
beautiful
pale dead bodies
long locks
intertwined
vines growing
through chain link fences
metal fences of
pre-suburban back yards
American border
collies happy to see their master
Blanketed by
children
Run to the woods,
dig through tunnels
Exiled-
And I have no care
to write about the stick or the sand or the salt
While I am freeing
the dead…
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