I was born
here in a Capital place,
as in DC, or so I'm told
by the yellowed scrap of paper
embossed with a seal,
which Birthers might say is forged,
but it's not, and that's
a happy circumstance for me,
because I hear folks like me
are different, maybe even
exceptional,
and with that lone American
difference comes a boat load of perks,
including the right to say
I don't see any difference
when it comes to simple
appearances,
but I do feel different
than those who want to speak
in the name of the same
old stupid conceit
that some belong
and some don't,
all the while they search
for differences
and seize on the might
to drive wedges
between us,
and if they end up driving out
our differences with this crocked-up
lack of a due process
cloaked in the flag, well that would be
the real crime.

The news never stops, but sometimes it breaks
strange, like when the cops tell us,
Man throws dog at sister.

It didn't fly far, but across town,
the Police did finally catch another stray dog
on the Eisenhower Expressway.

I hear it's driving a '98 Toyota Corolla,
which has nothing to do with
the 3 critically injured
when their vehicle hits a pole
on the Kennedy Expressway.

They could be spooked by the report
that a Suburban girl, 11, threatened
to shoot up her school bus.

She's been told pink bullets
are the latest preteen fad,
and to prove her absurd point,
there's more bad news of
2 children injured in a Far South Side shooting.

Add their names to the piled-up statistics
and the multiple PR reasons
an often divided
State Legislature and Mayor Daley will try again
to crack down on gun violence.

This equation's always out of balance.

They sprouted more than flew, and
there were quite a few, possibly dozens —
though, looking back, I always do
tend to exaggerate such incidents.

Anyway, this aphid swarm of grassy
greens decided to make me home,
and my chest crawled with specks, while
I waited for a bus to St. Peter's.

They could have been splattered "as if's"
spat from the mouths of hungry sparrows,
taken mid-swallow with a guffaw at
this tourist dressed in DayGlo.

I might've gotten the omen, but
intuition wouldn't surrender its clues
how to shoo insect guests attracted
by a coincidental cloth.

Perhaps they were meant as subtle hints —
an eternal city keeps its own agenda.

Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.

I.
They say,
Those who won't learn
the spirally past
are doomed to walk
its re-coiling paths
again, and I can't
argue with precedent.
I can point out,
my present and future
doubts, kneeling
down with guttersnipe
gifts and a candle
lit up to appease
history's stalking ghost.
What I really want
is to ***** it.

II.
They say,
This world's gotta date
marked expiry
and it's all set to go
sour with a big bang
or a small bust
out from the fridge
of twenty-twelve's
wintry chilling.
Lately, there have been
jumbo packs of weirdness
spilling onto
every last shelf,
but things got strange
long before the Mayans
began tying knots.

III.**
They say,
you can take the brutish
and dress them up
natty, extolling
their hirsute
vices in basso
profundo voices
till we all queue
back to ****** them.
I've heard the jingle,
but I'm drawn instead
to wisdoms spoken
by officials
not officially
allowed to speak.
Their off-the-record's nice
and scratchy.

"The Pacific's the best
show on TV!
Best ... show ... ever,"
one lean teen blares,
wanting the whole train
to know it.

I don't know
how many shows
he's seen in his thin
decade of watching, but
that won't stop him
from its knowing.

I do envy
such certitude
compared to my fat
knack for lacking it, and
I bet he sleeps
well, tonight.

His mind's eased,
its hunger not baited.
Me, I'll be
restless and gorging
just to begin
the comparison.

You've made a sensible decision,
joining these ranks of stomped-on stand-in's.
I'll be your Virgil and guide you through
the ropes too often learned at lashing.

Don't overlook the import of choosing
proper cause and duly sainted miens.
Be better judge of princely nature,
for when he does stray, it's you we'll hurt.

The world has no shortage of ******, and
to keep the knife at bay, befriend him
you must, lest he misbehaves solely
for the pleasure of watching you writhe.

If it comes to that, all you'll have left
is to pray, he meets an untimely end,
and loads your back with shuffled-off cares
to scape back to the wilds whence you came.