fat

so I’m staring at the blank page
wishing I was one of the stars
of oppression
all the poets I read are
angry black 20 somethings
spinning hip hop haiku and joy in the dreads
mourning two-pac or the smoky eyed boy
that took the honey and ran
or Amer-asian chicks
still running like that naked girl
from the napalm spray from the friends of the father
land of the free
or middle aged Mexican-Indians
singing of life in the barrio
the scent of tortillas on the griddle
rising beyond the adobe
and into the poetry circus nightclubs
to blend with the whiskey and fine Cubans

but I am none of these
no one pities
the short fat balding myopic American white male
anymore

funkyvick copyright 2004