Errand Boy

At Chemteks, yu'd think all them
scientists were real Einstein's or somethin'. When
I’s went theres to delivers some sack of ingredients
I’s thoughts they waz all slinkin' aroun'
thinkin' up some secret formulas or somethin'.
When I's returns, turns out they was debatin'
the right temperature to bakes a pizza.

Now if I’s weren't fooled! Yu'd be too!

Yeah, yu might think they're real smart
and know all that E=MC TWO stuff. But
when it comes to somethin' down to eart'
they can't do nothin' like I’s saw one
stickin' his face so close to the soda
machine that it 'bout bit his nose off.
He didn't know where the hell to put the coin.

Now if I’s weren't fooled! Yu'd be too!

If yu'se thinks I's jokin' well yu'se go over
theres yourself and see those big wigs
in action. Ain't nothin' to it, I’s tell ya'.
Ain't nothin' to dancin' around dyein'
scented toilet paper purple and orange.
Even I’s could do that—just by shittin' after
a good night drinkin'. And at half the wage!

Now if I’s weren't fooled! Yu'd be too!

Your Stepmother Calls You "Pussy"

You flick that long unkempt hair back to your ears.
The more you sweep, the more the dirt swirls
about your nostrils.
These grand houses cost more than you could ever dream.
With one blow you smack your fist through the drywall.

You watch the dozers tear down the trees
and uproot the earth.
Your own home reeks the omnipresent fart
from the factories.

No presents for Christmas,
no presents for your birthday,
wild man, gibbon face,
your friends call you “the Chin,”
your stepmother calls you “Pussy.”

And even though they also
called you “weird” and “queer,”
you wouldn't go whoring
with the other shit workers.

The wheezing raspberry-faced
insulation man asked
“if you jerked off instead.”

You merely shook your head
and quipped, "What are ya guys
so messed up about, anyway?!"

One day the Boss zips up in his Cadillac
and he surveys the ground
and he whispers to the supervisor.
Then he's vanished like a phantom.

"The Boss—he don't get laid off—
what's he got to worry about?!
He just walk in, say his NAME
and they give him FOOD;
I walk in, say my name,
and they don't give me food."

The carpenters, the painters, the roofers,
gawk before him.

"Hey, what's ya so upset about?"

"Didn't ya hear? The Boss just swoop
down from the moon and laid him off."

“No—not really! Is it real?"

"Yep! It’s real. I hears the boss
lays 'em off one by one.
They says he ain't got no underwear
and he's ready to buzz at any second."

Transport Craft

You remember how those giant
transport craft had once soared
one by one like eagles over your sandbox
where your model jets roared
missile strikes against tanks and toy soldiers.
Yet you were not even born when
those Hercules C-130s had years ago landed
packed with aluminium cased coffins

draped in Red&White&Blue…
My poor cousin from the Blue Hen
state with its own Mason-Dixon line
(that so neatly divides the northern corporations
from southerners farming chickens),
you took the very first chance you could
to see the world after those evil Saracens
struck the WTC and Pentagon.

Now far from your Dover sand box
you play volleyball and soccer
with your fellow General Issue
next to shark-infested waters.
Some flew in from Af-ghan-ee-stan;
others got it easy in Ku-wait;
and like yourself, other warriors
are on weekend leave from I-raq.

“It’s not so bad…” you start off affirmatively
“but there’s really not too much
to do sometimes… not at all like
they say it is in the News.”
You pause a bit, staring off
over the dunes; you’ve said exactly
what you’ve been told to say…
toes fidgeting in the sand nervously.

“Yeah, it’s great to take a rest,
even if only for a couple of days, but
ya ain’t allowed no more ‘dan two beers
per night!” Worse still, you’ve been granted
only one hour of shopping— transported
to a weird land where it’s dangerous
to even glance at the flash of a woman’s
eyes behind black shrouds hidden.

“At night… the latrine is a couple
hundred feet from the barracks …
If ya’ got ta’ go, ya’ got to take a flashlight
out to check for scorpions scamperin’
at your feet… but just lightin’
a match can make ya’ a real
sittin’ duck for snipers…”
(It would be a good several

months before the big bad News
began to murmur that kind of report…)
With a wistful smile you assert,
“Ya know I never dreamed
Dover to be so damn beautiful…
Had always wanted to get the hell out…
It’s only six more months
before I’ll be shipped back…”