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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Tristissima" data-source="post: 503335" data-attributes="member: 6162">Another one that's been in my headHere we go with the other loud one in my head right now.  I like it as prose poetry, no enjambment <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f642.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":-)" title="Smile    :-)"  data-smilie="1"data-shortname=":-)" />The red light of the siren flashes on and off like the red light of the brothel where a ten-year-old girl knows no literature other than the scars on her body, bruises like an abstract painting on the canvas of her skin, remnants of bones broken and teeth lost, cigarette burns ancient on young budding breasts and we won't even speak of her pelvis, front and back.  She reads these epic poems over and over every night, remembering the god-born heroes of her mythic history, lost in the millennia of crack rock, turning the pages in a daze of hazy memory -- her father, her brother, her priest at the Catholic school down the street.I can hear the rich college kids who go to the Jesuit university by day laughing by night, filled with the fizzing and starch ancestry of beer, as the ambulance roars up to the door like bullets whispering through space, words given substance, defiant cry that I EXIST to the world and that MY LIFE MATTERS because it stopped another's and now that random victim must speak his last words through a mouth filled with blood because one of these soon-to-be scholars filled his with the last remnants of rotted barley like the crusted remnants of last night in that ten-year-old girl and now he is passed out on the floor, needing an ambulance and these are the people who brought pizza to counter-protest our four-day fast for peace and these are the people filling the seats at a Jesuit university, freely admitting that their biggest ambition is to make much bank.I may not be Christian, but even a Witch can tell you that making much bank is not what the Jesuits strive to teach, nor is it what Jesus, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, and all the true heroes of the world died for, but to these people, Barry Bonds is a hero.But who is a hero to that ten-year-old girl?  Because when you know no literature other than the abuse you have suffered, your only heroes are the rats and the roaches living in the mattress in your room at the brothel.But that drive-by victims heroes have abandoned him as he melts into the matronly cement of the sidewalk.  His body is discovered by two drunk college students -- one had taken advantage of a girl drunk far more than he and the other secretly lusts after him but fears the repercussions far too much to ever tell him -- who laugh and cluck their tongues at the evils of poverty as if everyone without a Lexus or a home is somehow demonic and continue on their drunken stumbling way to cram for their physics test this afternoon.They will drink Jolt Cola to stay awake, but I am kept awake by the drug that is poetry, writing this stupid and unfair depiction of their antics, all so I can impress some people on the Internet, and as the colors of the sunrise flee the sky, fearing their abusive, drunkard father, I wrap my shame around me and finally sleep, troubled by dreams of a girl and bullets.</blockquote>

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