Obvious fear,
unimaginably joy,
the hot sweat of panic,
the rising wave of pain,
the red hue of hell,
and snow hanging from planted trees,
and people I don't know
dragging blankets
across the streets.
Hungry bodies
that know what they like.
Bare toes
that remember wanting.
Thirty bodies stuffed
threshold-high
with yesterday’s mash
stuffed into corn
on paper plates,
and “that’s it.”
61-year-old grandmas
out on the streets.
Young women blowing their brains out
after months
trying to find a place
to sleep.
Winter setting in,
drifting snow no solace
to shivering bodies
with bare skin.
Their dogs need to eat
and the pantries are out.
You can feed him rice
or brown, wilted squash.
You can eat crackers
and try to wear
something three times your size
with grime on the sleeves.
I don't even want
to help these people.
I want the state to.
I want the responsibility
out of my body.
out of my face,
out of my voicemail box.
They have the same hands I have.
The same eyes, minds, and brawn.
They know more than I do,
but they can't get by.
Why?
They don't want them to.
They're poor.
They're brown.
They're black.
They're old.
They don't contribute enough
to the local economy
at least, in an immediate way.
People can’t wait.
The old can die.
The planet can burn.
The oil can fly.
The prices can gouge.
The poor don't need to eat.
They can pull themselves up
by their *******
bootstraps,
turn to God,
stop their heinous
(gay poor illiterate depressed black brown Somali schizophrenic latinx Hispanic people of the system mothers aunts women)
ways,
and repent,
and get a ******* job.
I just wanted to be
an author,
in a house with some trees,
and some dogs from the shelter,
and a fire-burning stove.
These people just wanted
decent clothes
that fit.
And we're never getting
what we ******* want.
And we
are dying young.
Dec 15, 2025
Dec 15, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
Obvious fear,
unimaginably joy,
the hot sweat of panic,
the rising wave of pain,
the red hue of hell,
and snow hanging from planted trees,
and people I don't know
dragging blankets
across the streets.
Hungry bodies
that know what they like.
Bare toes
that remember wanting.
Thirty bodies stuffed
threshold-high
with yesterday’s mash
stuffed into corn
on paper plates,
and “that’s it.”
61-year-old grandmas
out on the streets.
Young women blowing their brains out
after months
trying to find a place
to sleep.
Winter setting in,
drifting snow no solace
to shivering bodies
with bare skin.
Their dogs need to eat
and the pantries are out.
You can feed him rice
or brown, wilted squash.
You can eat crackers
and try to wear
something three times your size
with grime on the sleeves.
I don't even want
to help these people.
I want the state to.
I want the responsibility
out of my body.
out of my face,
out of my voicemail box.
They have the same hands I have.
The same eyes, minds, and brawn.
They know more than I do,
but they can't get by.
Why?
They don't want them to.
They're poor.
They're brown.
They're black.
They're old.
They don't contribute enough
to the local economy
at least, in an immediate way.
People can’t wait.
The old can die.
The planet can burn.
The oil can fly.
The prices can gouge.
The poor don't need to eat.
They can pull themselves up
by their *******
bootstraps,
turn to God,
stop their heinous
(gay poor illiterate depressed black brown Somali schizophrenic latinx Hispanic people of the system mothers aunts women)
ways,
and repent,
and get a ******* job.
I just wanted to be
an author,
in a house with some trees,
and some dogs from the shelter,
and a fire-burning stove.
These people just wanted
decent clothes
that fit.
And we're never getting
what we ******* want.
And we
are dying young.
