To work again.
View from alley of hotel Steve McQueen shot his way out of in the GETAWAY. Now crumbling …
The future…
Lost.
NOT IKEA.
Just half a block down.
Small-room design at IKEA. Touching in a literal manner.
Sun burns through sky above Pier 1. This has happened before, I’m sure of it.
The dog licks
the toad and
the toad vomits
and somebody skewers
someone
else’s eyeballs
with a shish-ka
bob stick.
And I try to
spell that while
the kids set afire
the dog
till the lighter fluid
can explodes
in a small hand
and blackens
the blonde boy’s hair
black.
Speaking of which, my
neighbor Sam he
calls for a lynching,
trusses my wife’s hair
up into a noose.
And lo and
behold, someone
finds a colored
man. But
he’s Pakistani, I say.
And Sam, my neighbor
from just around
the next street says,
So we’ve a coolie
instead
of a boogie.
But I don’t think
that’s right, I
say. Coolie is Indian,
is it not?
Indian is Injun,
another neighbor
hollers, and you talkin
red, Red.
And all their eyes bore
into me, accuse
me of crimes
perpetuated
by others.
I grab a kid for
a shield
but it’s the burnt
motherfucker (darkened
even more by charcoal
dust) and this just
enrages the mob.
It’s my backyard,
I insist, but even
my wife is a part
of this, swinging by her
hair from the
tree, she says,
You always fucked
like a socialist.
And while I try
to figure out what
that
means
someone throws a
beer can
(empty, of course)
at my
head.
Then come the
ants and mosquitoes
till
the only sanctuary left
is the pink plastic
wading pool. I huddle
with the toddlers
in its waters.
And watch
as the night burns
itself out, the stars
startle on,
and I wish
I could drink
and be drunk again.
Copyright 2012 by TC Tucker