yes, comrade?

when you get passed my American smile
and american fat and american dreams,
my belief in democracy and father capitalism
you find something far more red.

red not like the stripes on the flag
nor the firecrackers on the fourth of july
but red like freedom
and equality.

i'd rather bleed red than green,
my america.


(prose poem attempt. it will be bad. because that's how we do it. i mean i. that's how i do it.)

after the clock ticked tweleve she sat up and threw the covers on the ground where they lay like a pile of trash unwanted now, made obsolete by time and sweat, from the greater blanket of sleeping atlanta like an owl on the hunt ready to find it's nightly reason to live she opens the laptop to type type type. the sounds of the cat in the kitchen come in from the vent he is loud her mind is loud at night all the tiredness of sleep repacked until the time will come for sleep but not when there is much to be born onto the white deep.

i push i push i hold on i push.

and finally it gasps. and howls.