on the bus / the passenger writes the story

the faces emerge from the crowd like ghouls: singular, floating, after you, out to get you, gonna kill YOU.
it's for the good of civilization, they said. it IS civilization, they said.
but you touched something deeper.
they had everything in its right place, everyone in their correct order, performing their proscribed function.
"i like them niggers behind me," the lady said.
it was not just a custom, a tradition, a hair out of place. and they didn't fold when you mixed the aces with the diamonds, the clubs with the hearts. no, the house of cards come down.

***

it came down with their fists and their crowbars,
their lead pipes and their guns.
it came down with the blood in your eyes.
it came down with the blood in your mouth.
and you held your hands up in peace, because you are nonviolent and you signed up for death if necessary,
but you are shaking because you don't understand.
because this is no DAR tea party.
or maybe it is and you're just seeing it for the first time.
now they've lit the thing on fire and it's over. you crawl out on your hands and knees onto the fresh wet grass.
they rise like a wall before you.
the cameras flash.
And you've just told the story of America, better than any writer could. you got all the characters together, lit the spark and let the truth flow out in your blood.

backseat

this is not a performance.
windows fogged -- rain outside
don't take my pants off yet. that jogger might come back.
he doesn't. 2 women stroll by instead,
collie in tow.
"hi," they call wicketly to you. your bra is bunched up
and hanging out of your collar.
eventually you stop caring and get down to it.
it goes in much easier than you're used ot. you're not
tense like you always are; you are surprised to feel your own
wetness. and when you feel it, you really do.
because this is not a performance. this is the backseat.