the junk coursing through his veins
caused him to fly through the clouds
with forgotten adolescent rage
his development arrested he clutched
guns and turned cars to battered tin boats
coasting down the avenues before prison
he spent many paroled months ingesting
synthetic county-distributed
junk, slapping his boxer shorts
before his transistor radio
the sound of Bill O'Reilly's
furious jowls slapping together
forming an angry rhythm
the microwave's steam mingling with his tears
methadone clawed into his back
like a plague of vultures
signing its name onto his withered heart
rinse and repeat
oxygen masks fall from the sky,
and the man smoldering is left for dead,
the women and children torched him alive,
and are now campaigning in Washington
for more burnings,
they yearn for their own existence,
they'll never disappear
while men are busy dying
and more children are being born
for now another cigarette is lit,
shaking in hands waiting
to be ostracized by fascists
disguised as saints
We raised our voices
within our angry
weather-beaten
tent city tribes
only to be sprayed
with government
approved
cowardly wordless
toxins
by uniformed
human centipedes
Eyes watering
faces reddened
with surprise
and still anger
the urban
rent-a-soldiers
think we're clowns
the Brooks Brothers
douche bags
write us all off
but we'll melt
them down
with the
million angry suns
in our gazes
they'll go back
with their
limp dicks
between
their legs
cursing the
day they
sprayed us
as though
we were
bugs and
not a
fascist-crushing
army
Kevin Ridgeway is from Southern California, where he resides in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat. Recent work has appeared in Gutter Eloquence Magazine, Bank Heavy Press and Black-Listed Magazine. His chapbook of poetry, Burn through Today, is now available from Flutter Press.
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