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after the L.A. riot,In my country pp the weather it's not too good pp At every bus stop anger holds her umbrella folded her face buckled tight as a boot ppp Along the avenues beneath parked cars spent cartridges glimmer pp A man's head crushed by nightsticks ppp smoke still slides from his mouth pp Let out wearing uniforms ppp hyenas rove in packs unmuzzled and brothers strain inside their brown skins pp like something wounded thrown into a lake p Slowly like blood filling cracks in the street slowly pp the President pp arrived pppp his mouth slit into his face p Like candles seen through thick curtains pp sometimes at night pppp the dark citizens occur to him like fishing lamps along the black shore of a lake ppp like moths soaked in kerosene pp and lit From HURDY-GURDY (Cleveland State University, 1992) |
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