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                          Cooked rain for Dinner


When we feel it in our guts
         the torturous mumbling growl of a slaughtered zoo
 The suffering of a thousand mouths
             our lifted open hands are nubs of sloth
  we reach into the cabinet with salivating minds
                 there is nothing we cannot have if we want
  and quickly eat up a chocolate-chip cookie
              they starve in countries we haven't heard of
  it goes down well with a tall drink of delicious milk
           our parents worked to feed a crashing plane of dependence
                                                                     Yum.

I light this morning's cigarette
break in my palms gonna
one day kick this lip-bitten
memory of home and fast
food junkie hipster pop-
cultivated mainstreamofconciousness
feeling I get when I see
her teeth glint through a
frown her gown reminds me
of the town I used to live
in full of ants and faceless
lies to my ignorant eyes of
how a culture swabs its
filthy four-dollar shot glass
panic attacks on the war on
crime being a state of
mind-numbing back-pat patrolmen
looking to cash-in their druggie
friend next-door to the
cave of misbehavior swamped
with interior desolation and
misappropriated smiles that string
theories of grandeur mud flats
slatted together like brick-built
mortarboard coffeeshop employees
collecting to exit their fees and
debts neglected since their
educations death warranted for
arrest of intelligence and a
piece of paper signed away
all intents for regret; unless
the rent is too much stress
that rest is only between my fluid
breath and the next
cigarette.