Monday, December 6, 2010

We're Fucked: for Steve

You may tell I'm a worker
by the size of my bag
by my number of keys
by my reportage
to the Office Max
for supplies:
envelopes, file folders, pens of various colors, sticky papers of various sizes and colors, papers for printing nice things and papers for printing whatever.

I am excited to fill the needs of my office
with supplies --> provisions:
butter, salt, dried meats, bullets, a new wagon wheel, cattle, calicos and ginghams, buttons made of bone, etc. sewing needles, etc.

I am not an Indian, so I don't have to worry about genocide
It is important to know that my work is better
than some others' work
you can tell because I work in an office
because I am also a school teacher
my hands are not often dirty, but I do ride the bus.

What your poems say about you
is this much
I am the fingernail
and your arm is the rest of pre-history

willful cataloguing of hurts and slights
I'm sorry my people killed your people
how many people could I say this to
and it be true?

At least when I was in jail
I was fed
is this something that someone might say?
if I sell short the prison system
thinking anyone in it could feel
thankful for it

I don't know.

Maybe I'll ask the kids at Juvi
are you thankful for this place?
My captive audience,
aren't you thankful for me?

Who walks in and out
I'm curious
how much you hate me

My (simple) desire to do something
I am skeptical of

Me and my language
we come in here
and we say what is what

1 comment:

Steve Orth said...

Thank you for writing this poem. You run this shit.