That’s What They Get

before Wikileaks was banned by our government

I went on their website in the Paul Robeson library

and played a video called “Collateral Murder”

dirty water streamed down the window panes featuring

the supposedly revitalized city we stared

into computer screens on my display pixels

stood static as I witnessed footage

of the slaughter

of innocents

my countrymen howled ooh rah

with joy as explosive rounds

pierced the thin doors of a Toyota

mini van (the same those airmen’s wives

drove their precious kids to school with)

carrying small Iraqi children in grainy sepia

I saw their bodies disappear beneath smoke

as students around me lounged in cushioned chairs

they typed loudly and I cried silently

and the American soldiers on the ground

thought themselves American heroes

evacuating limp little bodies riddled with holes

punctured by projectiles from omnipresent helicopters

inside the floating death machine an American said

“that’s what they get for bringing children to a warzone”

turns out the victims’ obliterated fathers held cameras not rpg’s

that the terrorists were really journalists

that’s what they get for being born in a warzone

above pools of black liquid

into pools of red

that’s what they get

The Victim

You ate a spiderweb with morning coffee

and the victim is wrapped inside

your throat you’re mourning him/her

and yourself of course a part

of the daily routine to make sure

you’re still alive by almost accidentally

killing yourself. Then in the afternoon

you smeared glitter all over your part skinny

part chubby body you did it on purpose

you hate it it’s artificial but you look pretty

right? You’ve gotten past the self-conscious age

you forget that other humans exist the people around

are just representations like the internet.

And you’re a materialist you’re comfortable

with nothingness. You’re going to raise a family

in spite of nihilism so that your children’s children’s

children will know nothing of you until one day

when they’ll ask a Mormon to help remember

for some inane reason and all you’ll be is some

census data released a century later.

So drink/smoke/toke/pray up while you still can.

How to Make Love

1: Be sad.

  • it’s like Yin and Yang (?)
  • sad people don’t cry
  • regret everything
  • bed is home
  • don’t shower
  • drug dependency optional

2: Find Someone

  • socialize or something
  • get locked up
  • get educated
  • get job
  • fall asleep in boxcar
  • live in anyone but parent’s basement

3: Woo said someone

  • go to a party and stare at them
  • go on “date”
  • be weird
  • don’t be afraid to sing
  • acceptance

4: Have sex with said someone

  • know your tongue
  • embrace flesh and awkwardness
  • don’t mind hair in mouth/teeth
  • if you don’t have looks use wits
  • get used to funky smells
  • go both fast and slow
  • say creepy things
  • exchange dominance
  • scratch and grab
  • sweat and spit
  • ignore the past
  • empty lungs
  • be forgiving
  • be persistent
  • be patient
  • get freaky

5: Be sad again

  • collapse
  • consume
  • don’t cry
  • don’t speak
  • smile
  • kiss maybe
  • don’t worry
  • fall asleep
  • get up
  • drink coffee
  • worry
  • make money
  • spend all the money
  • have near death experience
  • go home
  • be satisfied
  • die and don’t know it

the infinite spaces between everything

they really do have picket signs with slogans and yell

“have mercy” and other things like that then there’s

a big black man named Moses who guides

you through them and may just make a snide remark

(if you’re lucky) to maybe help you feel a little better

before the suction

and it will probably be a sunny day

cars will pass by

cars filled with humans oblivious to the pain

and profundity of a concrete and stucco one story building

holding the remains of people broken

even if we don’t know it

and we will know it at one point

when the sun shines that certain way it did that day

above the asphalt holding imprisoned fossils

of invisible dreams

never to be

[The fat man in the liquor store]

The fat man in the liquor store

Held as many cans as he could

He was respectable in that place

And when it was time to pay

Numbers were spewed

Profit margins of his business

Slurs of magic numbers

A different set

For a different day

All arbitrary

$497 $316 $1,232 $671

They stood in wonder

How could a weekday make

more than a weekend

It was said offhand

But it measured their lives

The lanky clerk and

The fat man in the liquor store

It connected them