Dream of Chocolate City

Dream of Chocolate City

by Richard Hamilton



Political will, street urchins
flow in both directions

a ravine the unhoused
bathe in an elementary school a shitter

adjacent park  0.4  miles away.
What some might
say is   hankering for a clean witness

red phosphorus burns in an upper room
cauterizing lips, the way a mother never
showed up for PTA meetings, competing

interests. Once she coveted Bo
recompense in her shot glass,
she got hard instead.

Government cheeks

stayed painting shitty views:
Welfare Queen blues.

Systemic failure is not imagistic enough
to a disgruntled child.

It’s poetry, so its reach is colored, in part,
by the company I keep—all things close
as generation-old trees, gnarled roots
mangled trunks that, in the abstract,

to the  colonized  mind,  is like fucking
female  and male parts— clit, hollowed
branches vulva, Dick, white analysts as
in anal positions. When language loses
you or me,
I stress:

stressed workers, couriers in the gig
economy—nightcrawlers whose arms
of verdant green are burning bushes.

What’s with the parakeet on your sleeve,
the Safari

Jim’s uptown in broad daylight? Is that
your service animal?

Are your people creole
Louisianan? It does not mince words

as in a generation
not yet removed.

No one suspected a silver fox
underneath the clown
wig, she says, zip up your lace,
your views lost
me. Your face mask is letting run

all chaste parts.

The neighbor OG blares Ready for the
   from  his   speaker,   egregious
odor    beneath   the   door    does   not
suggest   he cares

to fuck the system. Yelling fuck the
 will not do, a friend recalls.
Catharsis is not revolution.


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