I rode bothe ways. In the dark my rim became bent at the South side of the cemetary. Dang those MRWA potholes. These roads designed for filthy cars are interested in killing me!

Anyway, I'm supposed to look better but I don' t I'm in the wars this week With pimple eruptions hassling me And this purple eye from a springing dark small fist. Assistants in blue Do nothing, see nothing. And the poor afflicted young ones get full of hate They're filled with hate. I draw pictures with my words But what to say to these angry ones Whose violence will kill an open mouth An open pen. I am not them.

How can I know? Yet my victim self has suffered same: I lost my land of the metaphor I lost my Dad even when he was a whore I hated school, it hated me And in the courtyard I wasn' t free I moved inside a full metal jacket Waiting for the hatred spilling Greenly out of darkened eyes that never knew me. And in the lost dark continent of the children Think you that I cannot know? These Kahlo crosses we are bearing Within our fucked up spines