To the driver seeing me in my underware

Sending Middle Fingers
like letter bombs

I know the lice crawling
under the wheel
under the fabric

we both know
which parasite
is in control

coy look
like he know’s
it’s getting in

it will
but to never

down my midnight
Detroit alleyway
shit smeared
on walls untended to

all is taken

I still wander
asking the wild
defenders of the ghetto
with jack-knife teeth
Just where I’ve run to

Traverse further
outside the inferno
cigarette buds
and losing lottery tickets
you’ll find hell

It’s only the fate
a curious republican deserves


What segregation
Can they enforce through media made minds?
While sweat shops slaughter
and maintain the nets
the “self empowered”
stopping the migrant commodity
from stirring up revolutions;
committing suicide

What words enrage the privileged
What keeps the coffee from the hot plate?
While women are charred
Prosecuted for the witchcraft
Of independent, third degree, thought.

Pity the child that can’t afford the pocket computers
While children in Africa
March barefoot miles
To survive off of thimbles
Of fetid water

help ourselves before we help others
Take it from the creator
We’ve been on our own for centuries
While he’s working on the down payment
For his corvette in the clouds

Why help those birthed in dysentery
From first world waste
When you can empower
The Gods of men

For the top 1% will never be “rich”
And the bottom 99%
Can never starve enough
When we’re eating our children to survive
We must remember
to save the best cuts of meat
For them

I’ll work myself to death
A corpse mashing the keyboard

And my Kingdom
Of Carbon Dioxide
The walls of
The victims of poverty
Will only

Wiping up the bullshit.

Even growth is controlled. All of life has turned artificial. Convenience has taken over. It seems that with the direction we are going it won’t be long before I’ll be able to hire a third world worker to wipe my ass.

Her name is Mochikwa and never before have I felt more comfortable with someone wiping my ass. Prior to her I had suffered with a fat brown man, who was far too abrasive and rough with his strokes. In fact his strokes seemed to have no technique to them whatsoever. It was more than apparent that he had not had the proper training to wipe my ass. That’s when I had him deported. If you aren’t competent to wipe my ass then you aren’t competent enough to live in this great nation. Mochika has soft tender hands. In fact, I enjoy the feeling of her hands so much that frequently I will ask her to wipe regardless of whether or not I’ve enjoyed a BM. I got the recommendation for this servant from my father. It seems Mochikwa’s mother worked for him. He said that her mother was even more beautiful, though I find that hard to believe, and even more tender hands? I doubt it.

Behind the Camera

Long live the king
The liberal loved
Guilt endorsed
Long live the assimilated
Lost man
That stands for the very thing
That raped his ancestors for generations
The very thing that tells him
He isn’t enough
Long Live the King
That lives as the example
Of the white devils worst tyranny
That red lined ghettoed
Long Live the King
That to the rest of us will still be a negro
That will further progress
The progressive illusion
Of integration
And equality
Equally as far from the working class
Pushed beneath the skin
Only those diagnosed
Are the ones that feel that pain.

Daddy Issues.

There’s a special bond between a mother and a son
It can be found
In dark studio apartments,
Dog day depressions

In the glow of breakneck streets
In junkyard lots of devastated confusion

In vexed tears
In daisies cradled in the barrel of M16s
The muscles holding up the fist
The breath of the air
The sun in the sky
Passion’s flame
Climbing dirt and diamonds

At times it burns like tire fires
And race riots in L.A.
But In the end
It burns like magnesium

Clean Caucasian Hands Type, Type, Type

I don’t have the powder
To blow the lid off
And scalp like Indians
Search through the pink pudding
For one of the keys
Tempting, mouth watering

I don’t have the power
I once had
The army of cotton pickers
And backs carved
Like a cutting board

Like a river flowing backwards
Towards the rape
And demise
Of the poor white woman

Like The Birth of a Nation
our topics our issues our third degree burn buttons
things in life that make us ripe with disgust

Ready to pull the trigger
Ready to live in the Negro penitentiaries
Ready to spit on the white judge, with the white prosecution, with the white defendant, with the white jury.
With the white government, with the white neighborhoods, the white institutions.
The white words we speak,
The white steps we take,
The white actions we make

The best story ever written is of a child being born
Living until they can read
And committing suicide

Tis the next great American novel
Overwhelmed and apathetic
Ready to give up

Like ready to accept the face value if marked with a low enough price tag
A pitiful white price tag
The highest of negro price tags

Like In God We Trust
Like the fall of democracy
Like the status Quo
Is maintained through legislations decisions
to protecting your right
to lynch
with bullets
and not get your hands

Like the AmeriCAN Family

Morals rot like the American family.
Like the heart, like the frame of the environmentalist
Like the box we all aspire to own
Breaking down into green
Inherited family explosives
Breaking down walls

The spark of flint and steel
The burning

All of the cages of the modern man
The box he sleeps in
The cage of standardized testing
Their education
Their career
And burger flipping jobs

The Sermon of Christ

I have something to say
Words to flow from the lips
Like red wine in the gullet
The blood of Christ

I have new lands to conquer
Achievements to conspire
The boldest of moves to make
The manifest destiny
Of poetry

Tearing down the house
And building a new foundation
Raping the earth and God’s creation
In His holy name

The children beaten, maimed
The bull brandished, bruised
Can never be tamed
The indecency inspired by name