empty threats and provocations

once again
         they fight over names
& the dandruff of culture
          flecking designer coats that won't even make them look better
because the
             Evil
                 Western
                        Society
                              apparently doused them with
thoughts of ugliness;

and,
of course,
we're bound to suffer
                 or yawn through
these tensions:
             horny porcupines
packed into this stinky room,
     each of us protects their own belly;


but the brightness of this clamour frankly
                                stings my eyes
          and your saccharine
                         high-pitched voices
lead me back into dumb opposition; opening

a can of scavenged coke, i am half-
proudly representing
               the Universally Loathed White Male
in my scraggly unisex body
            & their culture bastardized through the lens
of an outsider.


so here's to the old ladies with french fry fingers
gloating over my faux pas at the counter,
here's to the girls who write poems
starting with "to the girl who...":

                              the asphalt here
                                          is notorious for swallowing people.

and if you want to shut me up -
  come in, one by one,
step over dirty underwear scattered on the condo floor,
come in, real, un-
                  cluttered with concepts;
my tirade is an aimless pigeon with a plastic bag
                                       over its brainless head,
you know. come in, living beings,
make yourselves at home,
     leave your skin & your niceties on the coathanger.

& if the glint in your eyes is obsidian enough,
one day we might even
        do away with intestines.