Grassroots

A poem for recent frustrations
inspired by discussions in English,
by the way ink smells on the paper,
and by apathy.

Grassroots
I.
I have seen Buddha, my divination,
and the pregnant men of tomorrow
at a local Chinese restaurant
down the street
from where I live.

He works behind the counter
handing out fortunes and duck sauce.
There are spelling errors on the menu, and
on the outside sign.
China Cok, is the name of the
eatery, a hybrid between
wok and cook.
But, I cannot tell my Buddha
of the American harshness
or mistake;
the joke that ensues.
For the same reason
that I cannot tell him about a book I read last year
dealing with young prostitutes.
And I cannot tell him that when I imagined
the diner and bathroom where the girls
drank perfume to smell better and
cut their hair for infertility,
the main setting of the book—
that I saw his establishment instead.
And he was just as much of a character
as the young Lolitas.

II.
The day I turned fifteen, I met a rifle.
He was standing in between the frozen food aisles,
looking and longing for permafrosted delicacies.
Little pizzas balanced softly on bagels.
We made small talk about the difference between
pizza bites and pockets, and then he told me
that we had met before.
He looked at me straight in the
eye, his barrel lined up with
my cornea, and shook my hand.
He said, I have felt these same plump
Fingers run happy and delighted over my
trigger. I have had them hold that dangling
piece of metal before. They have stroked in
delight at the thought of ammunition
and knew when I was sticky and ripe.

III.
There is a dream that
I have where we’ve all
turned into machines:
simple and complex.
Women have bicycles for breasts and
Advertisements for thighs.
Men have natural metals
like iron, turn to ore in their blood.
My hair is composed of whipping cords and wires;
my head a monitor.
We’re giants.

I see everything in the dream through eyes
that aren’t really eyes but sockets, light sockets.
And they try to, but can’t see real things,
only stiff metal dust
thrust into them in the form
of plugs and powercords;
Sparks, and Lights.
I can only see fireworks and flashy things
The sparklers of everyone I know,
and their fading fizzle as they go out.

------------------

Frustration of things unseen:
Listen to the Talking Heads
and read these lyrics
(Life During Wartime)

The Mountain Goats have a song in which they make a list reasons why it is a good idea to freeze to death. I can only think of one:
I wouldn't feel the heat of fire (arms and breath).