The God of Broken Bottles
The big spread and the cars and the dough—all
of that more-than-you-need crowns the king of the big
kids’ jungle. See the royalty drive by,
out the gates and back in. They keep the goods
all under lock. What’s left is just leftover,
the hole-in-pocket hardcore life: fogs and fumes,
the field of fear that no one here can cop to.
Every day is nonlinear, except for
the subtraction. Given all the less-and-less,
how much can the nightsticks and the tear gas,
the helicopters and the spotlights do?
Every sliver of glass says Fuck you fuck you.
In the shadow universe, whatever goes in
through the eye scrapes across what-should-have-been,
the constant want-want-want. The audience
is restless. The audience feels like a phantom
limb still twitching. The audience feels like
the frayed electric cord plugged into the socket.
Come on, Mr. Crown-and-All, part the curtain
a crack to see just how many hands raise
a bottle to the lips and tip it back
and empty it and raise it high. What use
are city streets that only circle back?
If you can’t understand that, you are the problem.
The solution is to give in to anger,
to inject the king with a live virus and
paralyze him, to let fear central run
and run and run, to wring the bottle neck
and give in and break whatever can be broken.
Every store on these corners is well stocked.
Uh-huh. Such drama, Mr. Crown-and-All,
but they know the play’s an invalid. Small wonder
the audience disregards the usher’s hush,
climbs out of their seats, and storms the stage. Small wonder
the bottles fly and the streets are all sparkles.
Let the wheelchair crunch over broken glass.
