No two people
ever conceived by God
could possibly be more alike than us

We live our lives in perpetual hope
of Country Time Lemonade commercials
and old reruns of “Leave it to ******”

We hope that, around the next bend
on a dusty, sun streaked road
we will find our Mayberry

That place where old men
weighing down sagging porches
speak in parable of better times

That place where young mothers
perpetually in their Sunday best
push strollers edged in brick-a-brack

That place where little boys
have impossibly grass stained knees
at the edge of muddy fishing holes

That place where little girls
pick Black-Eyed Susan's in verdant fields
and play at getting married while the little boys flee in terror

That place where dapper fathers
mow lawns in their shirtsleeves
and tip their pipes to one another in the falling afternoon sun

Together, we dream of this place;
this ideal;
this America.

Together we dream and, together, we continue
down that old dirt road;
hoping to find Mayberry
just around the next bend.

The stone Angel fascinates me
and repulses me
It stands about 8 feet tall in a fountain
Its made of white fake stone
It pees
He wears a gown and has wings
His white hands gather around his middle holding a far too small water jug
Unless your within 2 feet of it
You can't see the little stone jug
It stands at the Corner of Tennessee Avenue and Beech Street here
*******
in front of an ugly little strip mall
I walk by it and we smile together
That Angel and I
I said to it one day," How lucky you are to get to eternally **** on this MayBerry Hell"
He smiled back
He pees as the children play by
As temporary lovers hold hands
He pees as the old people hobble by with their canes
When giving directions, people here actually say,"You know, it's down by where that Angel pees." ***
Sometimes I wish I were he

The day had entered the twilight time I heard an old train whistle I surrendered to the call of far
Away and I found myself back in time it was Saturday the family was going to town to the
Weeks shopping we parked in the alley past the feed store it was the way we started out we
Walked past the entry where we kids would go in on Easter to get the two free chicks then
You would go back to the bins and buy the fifty cent bag of pellets the fun involved the box with
The light the fruit jar that turned upside down with the lid fixed with indentations that as the
Chicks would drink and throw their heads back the water would bubble down like a water
Cooler little yellow fur ***** what a treat and delight but we would go in the big wide door that
Held the giant stand up scale with the great face and the smell of grain with a thin dust film on
Everything all of that and get your weight to how great was that back out in the sunlight dad
And I would go to Jims for a hair cut we all practiced cutting through stores you could go up the
Alley right beside Woolworths but what fun was best was parking behind Ben Franklins walking
In through the outer supply era and at the back of the store were the fiber barrels with the pink
And vanilla wafers they were a penny and I always got one of each at the barber shop the comic
Books were stacked high and the men were always having a talk fest and Jim whistled a tune
That was just as good as the theme of the Andy Griffith show we did a little bit of Mayberry all
Of us standing in the dark alley beside Rudow’s grocery waiting for them to do the weekly pony
Raffle I never won but I had access to the laker’s pony it was a good thing we had hard enough
Time feeding ourselves and the dog well we did have twenty seven at one time on the farm it
Was the A&P; for groceries run back home put them away and then go out across the drive set
In the shade as a family and eat A&P; Jane Parker Apple pie you would think it was desert at the
Green house restaurant on Market Street in Frisco where all the waiters wore tux’s know this
Was the time of grape Mogen David wine that was fairly priced in the family size jug but there
We set with a five gallon white plastic bucket with blackberries fermenting well dad must have
Already been tipsy that bucket had weeds other debris I won’t hazard a guess of what it was
But let me tell you the cloth on top didn’t help much I used to make a joke about espresso and
That strong Cuban coffee my complaint was it tasted like Wan and his mule was still inside well
This homemade wine hot long brown weeds I don’t care how country you are some things are
Better left alone like going out to our friends and have a meal they would put the milk in this
Big blue greenish half gallon right from the cow there would be lines moving around an oh yes
Don’t forget the snapping turtle we ran over and almost knocked me off my seat and those cars
Were heavy well quick as a country cook could do it turtle stew yum wants some excuse me
Folks As long as these people have a front yard full of grass I’m good you eat a while then chase
Lighting bugs now that’s what belongs in a jar and Like Dan Ackroad said in the movie and their
Butts light up well I didn’t have time to mention Tanners show uptown Sad Sack army show
With Jerry and Dean Gordon Scott as Tarzan they didn’t give the warning don’t try this at home
Or on the way home because in bums jungle where the bums all hang out between trains yes
There were vines on the trees but I don’t think Tarzan let go and rolled in the undergrowth that
Was filled with poison Ivy well Gordon never got to go from Tarzan to the mummy all white
With Copperas lay in the car across the street in the car like a dog with flees while your family
Is in the Home town café eating and the best part getting thrown out of the pool but I have a
Season pass well least climb a tree watch the fun and then a scene from the horror flicks of
The Day a little kid and his mother walk under the tree mommy mommy there is a monster in
the Tree and you wonder why I write I tore out of the tree like a cat possessed I ran over and
Hid in the big pavilion with the invisible man well that’s my home town how about yours

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                  “I Grew Up in Mayberry”

“I grew up in Mayberry,” the old man said,
“And in Dodge City.” He looked into his empty cup.
“I don’t know where I am now.  I just don’t know.”

Not ornate just ordinary screen wire but as you passed through it you entered the perfect world
Of the fifties the grocery aisles were short and compact because it was just a neighborhood
Grocery but it had everything you needed bread aisle the aisle with fruit cans vegetables paper
Towels a small shelf for hardware items and in the back the meat and dairy department back
Up to the front of the store behind the counter was the cereal boxes stacked high where the
Grocer had to use the first grabber to easily lift boxes from the top shelf then the bakery goods
In the glass counter under the cash register every doughnut you could ever want and over by
The door a barrel of kites and string on the shelf to fly them this was the provision and under
Writing of the fifties you stood in this insulated haven without regard to time and place the
Great locomotives rambled and roared just down the hill filling some with fear others with
Undying gratitude when they heard that lonesome whistle blow as it approached and receded
The haunting night sounds that best establishes the fifties echo and emotional content the old
Grey grocer created the mood of trust and stability keeping greater truths and dangers at great
Lengths mother and dad’s voices made up more of the vintage life known at that time peace
And restraint held you at the edges of small towns and their boundaries and the family barber
Whistled like Andy on Mayberry and had the same family and social beliefs it further carried you Forth into the sweet life that was the fifties the small hardware stores had that feel of small
Wonder the whole nation to a degree was on display within these walls all items that were small and needed were here in great supply it was cozy it delighted it made a small town larger by its
Connections to the rest of the country and where it fell short JC Penny across the street and
Montgomery Ward down the street made up the difference where they left off Murrays
Jeffrey’s television completed the hook up that great symbol of RCA at Murrays the dog and the
Phonograph and the wonderful team of Jack and his lovely wife made up the team at Jeffrey’s
They were between Woolworths and Ben Franklins dime store and for good measure Pop
Sinnard’s malt shop was next door across the street the Roseland Theater no it’s not the fifties
anymore the movie house is threatened by projectors all going digital the fight is on to save this
one special place where you lined up for Elvis down the block and around the corner Saturday
Matinees nothing better than the Bowery boys with Uncle Lou Sach and Slip rounded off by
Lewis and Martin the rings keep flowing outward if you don’t return in real time you do in mind
and heart from now on and the fifties are the greatest part of that reunion it was rock & roll
cool and so much more as Bob would say thanks for the memories

We need to quit seeing this world in a liberal or conservative view.
And adjust to a world better for the people.

Fools, which we all are.
Fall for this political stylizing conservative values.
Heck, they cheat.
They lie.
They racist more.
And dictated to by the church.
That's how they get you.
Women realize it's men perspectives being taught.
Which is why a woman might never be Pope.
It will shock the people.
Especially that religion.

Heck, Barack Obama shocked the world.
Then anything possible.

We need to stop seeing it from a liberal view.
Then it mainly because of liberals you able to do the things you do.
Conservatives not big on change.
They stuck on this Mayberry theme.
Still highly afraid of change.

But one thing for sure, they love to call out liberalism quick.

We need to halt seeing this world from and black and white view.
Yes, there are other hues.

The world only comes together when we try to make it better.

I walk these streets,
of which, I don't belong
Ever carrying the scent of
Death,
and vintage whisky
A visceral and demented
MayBerry hell
Still,
It is here, in which I dwell
Everyone plays their part,
Pays their bills
Me?
A mere ghost
haunting these wooded hills
A house,
I possess  
Home,
I lack
I wander
Alone
I belong no where
Everywhere
Just not here
And so.....

I wander
And belong to no one
A wanderess.......

~A

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 25, 2017)

There are many small spaces
where poems come from
like a vortex in the room
or the far deep of the brain.
Early in New Mexico
was all about fermenting
with disasters of toys and monsters
living in the wall. Music fed
the core from a stereo console.
St. Louis was the smart house,
flower papered walls for things
Jessica Lange said in Tootsie.
This is where the poems came
if I sat under the window,
warming on the heat vent
between the foot board
and the bookcase my father built.
The dorms of Kirksville were vacant
and Maryland Heights was about collecting things
not words. Massachusetts, off the Great Road,
near the colonial stone fences and the old world woods,
was transitional, with suitcases
stuffed under the bed.
Yonkers was the second vortex
in the basement corner.
I wrote my way into morning while Helga
growled at the ghosts in the closet.
The nightstand light turned on by itself
while I slept and beautiful Mars things
were imagined. The river place
was a reading place, always flooding.
We invented our Internet spaces there.
In Pennsylvania, I wrote above the garage,
reading to stave off the sink hole
of misplacing myself. The first zine.
Playa del Rey was during a rainy season,
but the early morning sun on the balcony
was a small, shining vortex in a glass of water.
My only writing in the melancholy outside.
California was a renaissance,
poems abandoned on the carpets.
Mar Vista had a converted garage
down a shallow step into a plush ****.
This is where we planned books and courting ads.
The second Zine. The genesis of cowboys and zen.
Helga died here. John came here.
Venice was all about making pots
and domesticating on threads of ideas.
Redondo was dubbed Mayberry
with its shade and birds.
I couldn’t write in its beautiful spaces
so I planted budding bushes.
Back in Santa Fe, we made a makeshift office
out of the makeshift dining room.
The ceiling had hundreds of trees.
The third Zine. The first book.
Down in Albuquerque, there are cowboys
on the couch. The same twister of books,
poems and pop songs. Every piece
of every piece feeding into its space.
Every poem belonging to its home.

My father always told me to do your best  But what if my best isn't good enough
A good life is a goal I can't reach
Still from your glass houses you still preach
A stable family life and money isn't something you can't teach
You can hide your flaws behind logo jackets and the newest smart phones
I drag mine across this stage because of a shattered  home and  these destructive thoughts that keep me from holding my own
Desinger outerwear and a iPhone six can't heal scar or broken bones
A strong male role model or a caring creator would still leave me to roam
So **** the hypocritical south and **** whistling Dixie
I don't think church or pharmaceuticals can fix me
So **** your dreams of Mayberry and this town I'll never miss
So **** the weight I carry and **** my last childhood wish
I could overcome and get away from all of this.

What if the town of Mayberry wasn’t
Exactly “white”?
Some of it would be of course
But what if most was “not quite?”
And whom?
They all look the same.
The same arms.
The same hands.
Creamy, milky blanched and not exactly pink even in soapy dishwater.

It does explain why there aren’t really any children.
That would give one away
That tawny skin
That curious hair and inky eyes

Aunt Bea, her nose is a little wide perhaps and yet...
Well Sheriff Andy sure can sing and his hair has just the slightest suggestion of a wave.
Otis’s lips are full and plump.
His face is round not square.
He is the most unassuming and
gentlemanly of criminals.
He locks himself up at night when it’s called for.
Sshhh
Is this why everyone is so frozen?
Not one foot put wrong even
in a solemn country way?

The secret getting out?
People wouldn’t understand.
And they’re out there far off by a stream
There could be trouble
And who’s who?
And who’s what?

We sit and watch the glow of quiet spectacle.
The pantomime of the solicitude.
The church raffle.
The apple pie.
The charade where no one knows the answer
If you were uninitiated maybe you would never know.
Imagine the stillness.

Now Opie you stay out of the sun!
But Pa!
I mean it. Now go do as you’re told and get ready for supper.
Oh alright.

They sit quietly around the table
Drinking iced tea and smiling
Nothing’s moving.
You sure know how make a fine piece of
Pie Aunt Bea!
Oh Andy!
No elbows on the table.
Why yes Sir.
Why no Ma’am.

Look, my hair is blond
And my eyes are a funny golden brown
I have a lot of freckles and when it rains
my hair does not know what to do
I wear it in a long braid down my back, tight
Someday I’ll meet a nice blond man and he’ll take me away from here.
I’ll stay out of the sun most days and our children
will be perfect.

It had, so he recalled, no pretensions of being something
So grand as a lake;
Just a roundish body of water, not particularly suited for diving
Nor of any real attraction to a fisherman,
Nothing there save the odd chub or sunfish to languidly pull one’s line,
Its recreational attributes limited to a postage-stamp size patch of sand
And one solitary rope attached to an equally lonely old truck tire,
Neither being of guaranteed fitness for the task at hand.
He’d gone there for one reason, and one reason only;
There’d been a girl, one late spring and a subsequent early fall,
And at times they’d gone there on the occasional sunny day,
Traversing a twisting two-lane stretch of county road
(The blacktop sprinkled with North Country sandstone,
Giving it the pinkish hue of a rainbow trout
Angrily flopping about on a dock)
In order to get waist-deep in the water for a few minutes
(The pond never really warm enough
To swim in with malice aforethought)
Before settling on blankets to drink cokes
And eat the sandwiches they’d picked up
At the ancient, Mayberry-esque general store just west of town
And to speak in hesitant and uncomfortable half-sentences
Concerning accidents of birth and death, speculative half-made plans.

In the end, it all went no further than talk,
At least after the inevitable transition
From the fleeting, furtive evenings
To the harsh, unremitting light of day.
In truth, he’d always had one eye fixed beyond the horizon,
Beyond the lumbering, lumpy old Adirondack foothills,
Alternately comforting and claustrophobic,
All the time paying heed
To some some whisper, nagging and ethereal,
That all this was simply some momentary way station on the path
To something finer, something substantive, some end of the road;
He’d no way of knowing that the murmur would remain,
Soft yet persistent, long after he’d left that cold cow country,
Rumbling on as the calendar proceeded and the hairline receded.

His work, as it happened, sometimes carried him
To the stark, sparsely populated environs
Situated to the north of the Thruway,
And he would, almost in spite of himself, concoct some excuse
To take himself back out by the old pond,
Still unprepossessing, the same tree sporting the rope-and-tire swing
(Some descendant of the one he had known,
But in the same uneasy state of disrepair),
And, now and then, he’d pull off onto the shoulder,
Leaving the car to walk down by the water’s edge.
On one occasion, he’d had the mad impulse
To dive into the water head-first and fully immerse himself,
And had gone as far as to take off his shirt and tie.
He’d checked himself in the end, of course;
There were any number of water-borne nasties
Courtesy of beavers and Canada geese, most likely leeches as well.
He’d dressed himself, and headed back to the car,
Making a note to himself to remember the hair-pin curve
Just this side of Hannawa Falls, gruesome stretch of road
Which had claimed its share of undergraduates back in his day,
And he’d always thought it sad how many bright futures
Had tumbled over the guardrails and into the ravine
To be held like dark secrets in the underbrush.

Had a great weekend caught up on my shows and got lots of writing. Thinking what I want to do with my life I'm older wiser made many detours and mistakes most of I learned from them.
Let go not looking back anymore, sometimes you observe what matters instead trying to fix things that are gone and not coming back. You just be better for what's new and the next time around. Looked at what I started and some stuff I need to get back on track with and finish.
I was too quick to run with the wrong crowd because I feared being alone. I work so I can have companionship but I'm focused on my tasks and making money. After a sibling dies you do what to do how to make it right make things better because everything is messed up and feels like it will never be right.
The family torn apart taken away put into foster care. Pursuing an education and can't do anything to help going to college up north a school that is like Mayberry after growing up in an all brown community such a change and culture shock.
During this tragic loss the one you see as the love of your life doesn't feel or see you the same way and bails on you because she has other affairs that don't include you lined up.
The last couple of years in a loop stuck asking wondering why all this happened. The family back together but not the same. The ex married and has kids while you have a hard time interacting with others. College an unfinished task that need to be completed a few more credits. Does this degree matter will it make a difference.
Many twists and turns to figure out my destination. Years of working like a full timer but really a part timer. Got lost on work because it was money to invest in myself but working so much I don't always have time for myself.

little footsteps, falling fast
my heart grieves in turn, God

my nerves are shot

threading
through the seats
of that little white chapel

sewing
sinew and bone;
thread alone, thread alone

so he sticks a hand
into the border fires
wets the fray of running wires

with his tongue

swinging, spirit
spirit of inquiry –
then onto his knees
in that little white chapel

stopped as a pendulum

swung onto the asphault
arrested, there, in time

God,

have mercy

grace even a hair—

where is my son?
he asks

dead in the back
of a Mayberry ambulance
stopped as a pendulum
where did you wander to,
where did you come from

God

there,

staring

cries him a tear of Pentecost

where his breath tarries
til' he wakes with a start

where is my son?
think love comes with little cost

little footsteps, falling fast
sleeping like a dead leaf

I make sure he's still breathing

a breath in, a breath out

that licks the flame, makes it weak
so I sleep with eyes as wide as saucers
in fear the candle might be brief
come in, my little selfishness—

don't take him away from me‎‎      ‎

how to whistle while washing ***** dishes
The island of we, the sumerians

sixty times the four fingers,
three count point
knuckle one,
knuckle two,
knuckle three, see it counting
to ten in base sixty

humm a little whatifery whistle,
what if, we need more
imaginary units to finish the proof, thus
we instructed
were
we not? Prove all things are not your
imagination,
we are in agreeing mind state, joined
at the bottom most
maximus grave ityness, the force
we must suppose
flipped us off as not a chance,

let it be. Me, my mind, I find, rests
in peace.
with no anger remaining prime motive,
get even,
get back, grow up, settle down, learn
the secret said to be revealed

as reversed veiling, un veil, one of seven,
as the dances were advertised,
hawkers, spy the curious child,
wink, a thought, think kid

seven veils and tied to a cross, with no
malice of fore thought,
this was here, in that hat, I thought was mine,
a mind field, experience, not

commonly taken from the sheet let down,
from the heavens
to the roof of the Khai Vinh fishnet factory
verified center
- glimpse
curious tracker on a water buffalo,
those look like oxen, may-i- those are the sign
sought,
like year of all the oxen out and free,
ball as bulls
give it a twist
imagine
castrata tata tooeee
the pace of evolution without the power
pens I use in my war with power
edgers, bubble
slicers, other wiser geysers, orange
is oranger than any carrot, if you knew orange,
as William and Mary institutes the truth color,
the other people's orangest of naranca
edge lit
ledgends told to begin sending the dancing
muses, as the sun is singing oranging
arranging
so much
so little, this touch, too light, to feel, fffixes the glow

green florescencing bit, you think it down
to scales,
we see. We now beings seeing and sensing below
the frequent measure mental device
we may imagine imaging in our shared timespace
- glaring screen
projected, light, and shadow, sent.
Sentiment, seeing Mayfield, Kentucky, and
knowing
that place was like, like
yes, the ideal Mayberry, USA, as depicted
in the youthful vigor of old Henry Ford, and
the dime guy, what'sisname, famous rich
dime giver, we all marched in his memory,
in the year of our Ford, Rockefeller, right
1954, oh, the allegiance, total troth, all
under god, and the trusts on the money
at the top of the eye,
watching featherweight angel judger try
-yy'alto lift ration, al flow
expo
exponential compounded interesting times,
by golly, it could be organzied
to see, perfectly strange,
as you
b n  -i-    odd number, at the end, I bet.
stand and ask what line is this?
--------------

Some, somewhere, a point, at least
per haps may be made
plain as through nothing,

A Catholic school student harass a honorable Native American.
Just standing there with a mockery of a smile upon his face.
Makes, you wonder what they teaching within his church.

There it was in the news, spotlighting this youth stupidity.
Many could careless about the MAGA theme.
Although many still living in this Mayberry days of golden dreams.

Now, we hear the oddity of his mom blaming it on the Black Muslims.
After thinking, when did they control her son?

It's a telling sign.
When folks stupidity is exposed.
They toss blame upon another.
When she should be addressing her child around the world respect.

Maybe, this should be a message to his church leaders.
When out of view members acts like a fool.

I'm a porch distance
from other witnesses
trying to commit this
human wisdom
to other men.

I'm a poet
always writing,
inviting others in
to a shared understanding
but it doesn't matter
if I master
the technical skills,
if I can't relate
to what other people feel.

Then I'm still
just a second-rate hack
wearing an off-gray hat,
a Mayberry man
with two hands
on my gun belt
as I shoot myself,
whilst dumbfoundedly
wondering “how am I
going to come back
from that?”

If it's eternal sleep
Do we still somehow dream?
University of Chicago
I do want you on my team

Don't remember much of Paris
Do remember Gamla Stan
Scifi bookstore
Avoid the wrath of Khan

Walnut Heights, Ohio
Frank's pizzeria
Mayberry Elementary School
Almost I can see ya

Snow Falling on Cedars
And in my lonely mind
Her smile is such comfort
I wanna travel blind

                 Find?

I wear no religious clothes
No robes or black suit for me
Tshirts, sweats, hoodies
3773

Dino in the bar tonight
Hang down your head and cry
Lyin' back in her satin dress
Poor boy you're bound to die

Mayberry elementary school
Walnut Heights, Ohio
4988 Carbondale Drive
Allah da me o my o

Derek and Susan Lindsay
Empty Diamond, yearbook class
You'll know you're alive up there
She was a grand wee lass

             St. James Cathedral
                       Seattle
             Contemplative Mass

Folks in his vicinity speak of  the sweetness that was Andy Griffith,
while syrupy slurries define what ***** Emil Brach's candy myth is
after the 3 centuries lost to Heribert Illig's phantom time hypothesis
Mayberry's spasmodic rubes'll spazz spastically into sandy cliff pits
to rate the cocky germination of contrasexual, queerly-baited minds
amongst the needles of citric-acid-rich-spruce-beer-rendering pines,
Coca Cola bikini babes snort coca tropane ******* in crooked lines
illiterate & analphabetic to coke's grungy alkaloid nature & designs
on the brain's V.T.A. mesolimbic pathways hid under cortexic rinds
as surely as sodium hydroxide lye to human eyes ulcerates & blinds
to make it more difficult to pay those ever-escalating seat-belt fines
while into our precious eye socket orbits each killer restraint grinds
like a nose ring or cinched girdle or delta harness that cruelly binds
like panicked ******* after the power company turned off the lights
in a warehouse of dobies that bite out mega chunks with their bites
we are horrified that whitey will deny our federal food-stamp rights
for the purpose of inciting plagiarist Alex Haley/Kunta Kinte fights

Folks in his vicinity speak of  the sweetness that was Andy Griffith,
while syrupy slurries define what ***** Emil Brach's candy myth is
after the 3 centuries lost to Heribert Illig's phantom time hypothesis
Mayberry's spasmodic rubes'll spazz spastically into sandy cliff pits
to rate the cocky germination of contrasexual, queerly-baited minds
amongst the needles of citric-acid-rich-spruce-beer-rendering pines,
Coca Cola bikini babes snort coca tropane ******* in crooked lines
illiterate & analphabetic to coke's grungy alkaloid nature & designs
on the brain's V.T.A. mesolimbic pathways hid under cortexic rinds
as surely as sodium hydroxide lye to human eyes ulcerates & blinds
to make it more difficult to pay those ever-escalating seat-belt fines
while into our precious eye socket orbits each killer restraint grinds
like a nose ring or cinched girdle or delta harness that cruelly binds
like panicked ******* after the power company turned off the lights
in a warehouse of dobies that bite out mega chunks with their bites
we are horrified that whitey will deny our federal food-stamp rights
for the purpose of inciting plagiarist Alex Haley/Kunta Kinte fights

Folks in his vicinity speak of  the sweetness that was Andy Griffith,
while syrupy slurries define what ***** Emil Brach's candy myth is
after the 3 centuries lost to Heribert Illig's phantom time hypothesis
Mayberry's spasmodic rubes'll spazz spastically into sandy cliff pits
to rate the cocky germination of contrasexual, queerly-baited minds
amongst the needles of citric-acid-rich-spruce-beer-rendering pines,
Coca Cola bikini babes snort coca tropane ******* in crooked lines
illiterate & analphabetic to coke's grungy alkaloid nature & designs
on the brain's V.T.A. mesolimbic pathways hid under cortexic rinds
as surely as sodium hydroxide lye to human eyes ulcerates & blinds
to make it more difficult to pay those ever-escalating seat-belt fines
while into our precious eye socket orbits each killer restraint grinds
like a nose ring or cinched girdle or delta harness that cruelly binds
like panicked ******* after the power company turned off the lights
in a warehouse of dobies that bite out mega chunks with their bites
we are horrified that whitey will deny our federal food-stamp rights
for the purpose of inciting plagiarist Alex Haley/Kunta Kinte fights

So what?
We stole land from the Indians.
So what?
We stole land from African Americans.
So what?

So what?
We did every other race wrong?
So what?

Who cares?
If Hollywood portrayed minorities in a bad light?
Just remember not all executive was totally white.
Some Jewish executives supported highly the stereotypes.

Who cares?
If song credit was stolen too?
Enriching whites that to this day defends that practice.

Who cares?
If they the government WON'T list white hate groups as terrorists?
But label tags quickly upon The Nation of Islam and the Black Panthers People Party and now the Black Lives Matter during past and present times.

Then remember the branding coming from many white elected officials.
Same officials intimidated to address their own.

So what?
If whites still living in this Twilight Zone Imagination?

Days of Mayberry.
Days of Leave It To ******.
Even I Love Lucy.