27 children
20 white, 6 mulatto
made of saline and ashes
fopping on the cold tile,
dusty and dirty
sugar splotches
the blonde results of passion
golden hash
a mish-mash
of Betty Crocker brownie
batter with
dirt-flecked
charr granuals,
a fiery grave danced
upon in the gutters
of Southern cities, the
same as all the
rest,
blessed by some of the
best trivial pursuits
in our neurotic
conforming, regicidal
mediacrity,
wrapped in a nasty navy
leather exoskeleton,
open for interpretation,
by some lady in Iowa
that heard it from
her friend who
heard it on the
public airwaves.
27 children
20 white, 6 mulatto
made of saline and ashes and clay,
secreting constantly
from the bottom and top
middle too, if they could,
with the mothers
listening close
by,
dad's at work,
so he says,
to bring home the bacon
from the Tyson plant
smelling more like a
paper mill than
birds, a
sign of the times here in the South,
so he can bring one more
disgusting imbecile
onto the world to be
controlled by a lord,
oh Lord,
and this vassal will continue
until he reaches Your
great golden plains
because we all have
plans to spend the
sands of our days,our
demands to match what we
stand for.
But that's not the part of the
absurdity I’m referencing.
There are 27 children,
20 white, 6 mulatto
eyeing me with
magical indifference
as I wait for us to be
fed so they can grow
up to be
the people I
tolerate,
condemning lest they
be thrown out
into the sandpaper wind,
speaking the Jester's English,
me being the fool,
fool of the court.
27 children
20 white, 6 mulatto
one missing.
I screamed for my son
and he emerged from
the trapdoor in the bushes.
