Primary Domain

It should have.
It should have been
a superlative day
but the sky is a river
and it carries dark
currents over the
skin of the land.
The racist and the alphabet
went someplace
where they would
never bump into each other.
The alphabet got cleaned up
and took the bus home.
The racist wrote a letter to me.
There are stars and bars
and convertable cadillac cars
waving through the plaza
of our American cousin.
The joke the racist sold me
is strung with bullwhip stings.
We are not reconstructed.
We are not well.
The march to the ocean
has reached the shores of June.
Green creeping spring
has left the freezer door ajar.
Every handshake is cadaver cold.
Every kiss is ice cube numb.
On the grand campaign platform
strings of humming bird thin lights
jump rope swing to the beat
of the wind.
The television bleeds
through the front porch window.
From the outside I see
the first past the post.
He thanks the kin
and unkind
who chained them there.
I blink and watch
my jaw move side to side
in the afternoon window's
smeared reflection.
This time.
This time I'd like to be
proven wrong.
This time I'd like to
find a reason
to believe
that a happy ending
isn't a ghost story
or
a schoolyard joke.