NEBRASKA
It's been a long night tonight; I have sent in
my application for a sleep permit hours ago,
I-444. I got a notification it is being processed
at the Nebraska Center for Insomniac Aliens.
They first returned it saying I checked
the wrong application type in my answer
to question F-2. They even returned
the check VOIDED.
I've put on my nightly dress
thirteen times, trying to trick my body
into tricking this 24/7 capitalist cycle
into pausing. I refiled my application,
this time ticking the right choice.
I folded the clouds into paper planes,
I waited for the rain to cum in my mouth,
I counted all the sheep in this nation.
Maybe I licked the wrong stamp,
maybe the postman is still at the trap
house. Or maybe they don't speak
English in Nebraska.
AT THE JFK BACKROOM A.K.A THE MINORITIES’ ROOM
How can we, being here, enter, exit, being there?
We, the grim clowns of destiny, more
embossed by journey than destination,
sit perplexed on cold legless chairs
stacked up, linear firm, soldiers
watching onesleves, our bags gutted
at the crooked mouths of Irishmen
Caribbean men Italian men Chinese men
who make one strong nation
we pray at the officer’s altar for our lies
to outlast, to outplay an empire
we kiss on god’s ears to make them deaf
to burn their eyes, to damage their files,
ignore the rainbow of brown and black
men who seem to upset both their women
and the males of whiteness
all I can see of my next-seat neighbor
is his old trembling knees illuminating
through the white dress a waving flag,
nothing more irregular now than to breathe
to swallow, lay down jaws, let words
& pride slip south, straggling
we come forward the start line
& the end line are one
the enemy is before us immortal
the friends behind don’t matter
there’s only one Russian among us
to sprinkle the room as random
guts sprawling touching core to core
the fingers in 4 directions jittering
in them we hide the old maps
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