We can’t see the poetry, maybe
we’ve been politically corrected to blind fear
but it’s accept no substitutional excuses so
the poetry hates us like
the pearl-wearing wife hates the bastard daughter
of her husband – hates the way the little
slut showed up starving on their doorstep at
half past two in a summer thunderstorm.
There was poetry in the rain soaking through
her cheaply-dyed black hair/blonde roots and
it was in the lightning flashing through her
heroin-ring eyes and her blue-white, needle
tracked arms. There was poetry in her unapologetic
slouch, one skeletal hand on one bony hip
and the bored, haughty pout and deadpan
delivery
I’m here to see my father.
And even better the exasperated query
You gonna invite me in, bitch?
Somewhere, there’s poetry in the slamming of
suburbia’s doors – a sealed room hides the
yelling from everyone, even yourself – and
it’s in the not-listening, never-gossiping, oh-so-
sympathetic neighborly neighbors. There’s
beautiful poetry in the ugliness of hypocrisy, you
just need to coax it out with a cigarette
and a smile.
There’s poetry in the do-it-yourself back
alley right wing left wing hangers
pliers antichoice antilife picket sigh riot
rally but we’re too agree to disagree, let’s
talk about something less upsetting to
see it.
There’s poetry in the fairy’s blood on the hate
crime’s fist because that kind of love is
unnatural like the roofs of London or Berlin
or Moscow or even Brooklyn but only if
the light’s perfect.
There’s poetry in my awkward Spanish and
your flawless Icelandic and we’ve nothing in
common beyond enjoying the feel of my
hand in yours. There’s poetry in the
stereotypes, like the parking tickets of
the prostitutes in St. Louis and the
hopscotch games of the orphans from
Kansas City and the annual Christmas
cards where the family smiles let’s pretend
we really do love each other because
our marriage just hasn’t been
the same since that damn little
tramp showed up last July.