Sundown Town

Tell Our Story, Hear Our Story! -

the headlines weep and

bleed and

beg.

Shell Oil

decides

robbing Nigeria is not

enough.

There goes the Arctic.

Drilling off the coast of Alaska is accepted,

because our “president” is

blind/bought/burdened-

as many of us are.

(Difference is,

he had power

to resist).

So Apple can still rape

the Congo-

and who cares?

Gold, tin, tungsten.

Amerikkkans are addicts, after all.

(we hear “tohellwiththechinese,

canigetanAMENandanotheriPhoneplease”)

Ikea logs / clear-cuts

old-growth forests,

so the elite may decorate pretty houses/ remain boxed in,

sheltered from screams of birds and bees,

butterflies poisoned.

My students laugh,

sometimes.

They find my radical-ness entertaining.

“What does your tattoo say?” they ask.

“Gentle,”

I smile.

Occasionally,

they try to understand.

They respond passionately

when conversation turns to Ritalin.

Many memories will stick

and haunt and burn

and enrage eternally

-but the story I have to share

now

is of one boy

-Guatemalan and Irish descent,

seventeen.

He laughed,

“When I was a kid, my brother would say

‘You know why you’re darker

than me?

‘Cause your skin is dirty’-

So I would scrub really hard

in the shower,

always hoping

I could wash it away.”

You

see,

We are

distracted

by diversions

masquerading

as dreams.