My Mind is a Microwave

My mind is a microwave-

Some rogue heat wave,

Some criminal contraption of a Radarange, and yet

Something that still belongs in the kitchen.

With their white hands, and black top hats
they planted my seeds in cement

So that I could never grow

And never know my true entity.

These lamented gray chips of stone

Beneath my boots

And above my eyes

Are the anguish of my republic prison.

Somehow I still see her,

That girl I was supposed to be

As I see her in my blue lamp dreams.

She stands, perfectly postured and smoking-

a silhouette on the top of the shadowed hill.

Her eyes are into the sun, and her hands are coming undone

With reasons why not.

Awake to the real America.

The land of the free to pay taxes and suffer at the greedy hands of partial aristocrats.

I take it,

All this shit I’m supposed to be doing

Given to me by the powers that be-

Dare I say God?

There is no light in the sky but the sun, and so I am a scientist.

Dare I say Government?

-the crooked spine of humanity?

Pencils, and papers, and lies, lies, lies written in

Plain English in desks, desks, desks.

And this heart, what is it?

What is this selfish organ whose meter is but a beating nuisance

Keeping this body from falling down some idle stairs,

Or slipping some infectious yellow pill into my tea,

Or carving some new decoration in this blandly pale wrist of mine?

I’m good for a joke,

But when I awoke

The dream didn’t end.