Luther,
who grew up on
the reservation
with my father,
said tonight while we were all watching
the news:
everything here’s occupied
and has been for years —
why are they so willing
to say the word now?
And why should a change
in occupiers matter to those of us
in the less
than one percent? Everything’s
stolen — how the thieves
divide it
doesn’t matter much
to the robbed.
Not sure as to what to say to that —
half of me nodding my head,
half of me wanting to hide.
Louisville?
I have never been,
but I have a bat
from Louisville
at my bedside;
the name alone
comforts me.
Picked it up to
kill a mouse yesterday —
no real fun in that.
No slick crunch
like a head or knee.
But I digress.
Huntington Beach?
I have been there.
I didn’t like it much —
it seemed less broken
than I like
although it’s possible
the bigger breaks
are under the surface.
I did feel menaced
in the night there, once —
slid my hand onto my knife
and as always I hoped
and was horrified
by my hoping —
but I did hope,
and as always,
nothing happened.
Once,
in Cambridge,
I was accused
of critiquing a poem
I’d heard read
in a bookstore
exactly as if
I’d been challenged
to a cock-measuring.
I smiled at the thought
and subconsciously (I’m sure)
touched myself.
Still a winner.
Life in these United States
can be a sheer fuckin’ joy —
and I’m saying what I mean
when I use those words.
Sheer:
near transparent,
or vertical
and deadly.
Fuckin’:
Big man coming through.
Ain’t got no time for the voiced “gee.”
I carry my own.
Joy:
the word they have always used
for how this feels.
“Joy” it is.
Dark Matter 