sometimes in my dreams i'm dropping
bombs out of zepplins while playing ode
to joy through loudspeakers for all the soldiers
dead in combat, all the service men, women,
veterans, puppy-dog-wet-behind-the-ear americans
who enlisted yesterday that have ever texted b***h
to their husband/wife/significantwhatever
during the national anthem. in my dreams
i drop our stripes so i can burn
our stars up, but if they were really stars
they'd be exploding their way out
of those perfect little rows and uniform shapes.
texas would be biggest
since everything that raw is messy:
size is messy, creation is messy,
explosions are messy and that's why we created
atom-bombs. even when we're old
we can't help but stick out our fingers
to make mud pie, to trace people better
than us to learn to copy, to trace
people etched in milliseconds to stone.
i wonder how much more my fingertip knows,
how their backs much ache,
how many years ago that boy decided
his ball was never going to come back down
and it makes me want to scream sometimes, it
makes me want to scream sometimes, i want to
******** scream sometimes, i'm ********
screaming that there are still people out there
who use Orient as a stereotype and think Native
American is a ******** costume.
i don't go around in black-face for halloween
and i can't even raise my fist to brown power
without feeling like a hypocrite for all those transcripts
that i marked Caucasian because i'm not brown
enough. and i'll never be brown
enough, or white enough or tan enough
for it to be okay enough for me to dance in moccasins.
i'm almost apologetic i can't talk
to my uncle who calls me miha twice in every sentence.
all i hear is dear habla dear habla dear
habla con mi since i took Japanese
and those stone pictures are enough
lanugage for right now.
