Digressions of the Cityscape
These are my digressions:
the pseudo-pop psychobabble of
22 year-old hipster chicks
persuading collar-popped bros to trade in
those polos
and yolos
and lokos
for PBR mustachioed fixie apropo cutoff jorts
made DIY for $88.99 at the
cookie-cutter knock-off conveniently
located 'round the corner from their gentrified ghetto-fab
$4,000 per month apartment, complete with homeless cranks
passed-out beneath window-barred taquerias
serving those highwasted fashionistas (and their exposed underbuttcheeks)
because this is cultural appropriation faster
than you can say "National Geographic"
These are my digressions:
the flowetry of Jared Washington
who the prison warden calls Tyrone Farraconvict
he missed a stop & frisk
but not the DWB down International Blvd
so now he's got a nickel that turned into a dime
for possession of long since legalized Mary Jane
while Mr. Corporate So&So's bleach blonde spawn pleads affluenza
for the meth lab in his dorm room
hired experts say so-so officially
and judge replies, "clearly this is legit-imate"
and leaves the court to find a prossy for purchase
on the same street Jared wanted to escape
but not like this
These are my digressions:
the anxiety-ridden Yiddish of
Michael Goldstein-Rosenberg-Feinman-Cohen-Abramowitscz
visiting his bubbe in Florida
(where Cubans go to live and Jews go to die)
for a summer of lipstick staining smooches
from old yentas with purportedly eligible granddaughters
and swap meets selling the dispossessions of the
167th to last Holocaust survivor
who, apparently, had a thing for phallus affixed
tribal art which now decorates
the side-table by the fold-out couch where kindelakh sleeps
in a manner of speaking
until he finds a nice Jewish girl to settle down with
These are my digressions:
the salsa-laced taco shell
the mustard crop-topped hotdog
the paper plane folded pizza pie
the soul seared ahi tuna bowl
foodie photoshopped like whoa
on Facebook, Instagram, Twitterpix,
each dish no longer sustenance but
a contestant in this "I ingest cool" race
that's hardly believable in a world where
children are starving to death
in the time it takes Mr. IPA Fauxbeard
to upload and click "send."
These are my digressions:
the construction site catcalls
jarring nerd goddesses from their most recent
pixilated escapade, like a dial-up modem
playing the sounds of date-rape
These are my digressions:
the gay boys of Castro & Market
newlywed and newly condemned
by The Preacherman with Ms. Holier-than-thou
hyping their hellfire brand
to the tune of one. hundred. billion. taxfree. dollars.
and meanwhile Jesus wept
These are my digressions:
the mislabeled Chinese — actually Korean
actually Asian, actually American
actually nevermind
dodging Tiger Mom interviews
and middle-aged White dude fetishists
in chat rooms and forums for who knows
how many times
These are my digressions:
the confusion-infused student
who, yes, just happens to be
Nigerian-American when introduced
(as if it were an accident)
wondering what in the hell happened
to this lit course's discussion of
Heart of Darkness
turned "Well, my best friend is Black."
These are my digressions:
and they go for miles
like my carpet-bagging ancestors
lynched from the flag-pole in Texarkana
like the Cherokee's Trail of Tears
wondering why those blankets smell funny
like the zoot suit riots
pitting Juan, Jorge, and Luis, against Buck, Johnny, and
L.A.P.D.'s finest Southern-bred segregationists
all of them wondering if the answer to illegal immigration is to build
good fences out of the bodies of good neighbors
These are my digressions:
and they gnaw at me
like so many broken teeth
so I stay awake into the night
singing half-remembered melodies
and obsessively picking my skin
till the pain feels more like
a hug than anything
except it's suffocating
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