Mona
in Amerika #1
in
the shimmering emerald rain
of
the inhuman dawn
the
man in the yellow hat
hunchbacked-
weasel featured
almond
eyes crossed toward a mauled cashew nose
flits
and limps around- fleabag motel
HOME-
35 dollars a night
scraps
of chicken wings, beef shreds, ham bone
bundled
in newspaper and twine
friends
with the butcher’s assistant
they
play checkers and drink
belt
out dead love songs on a busted six-string
labor
ravaged, soul maddened, tragic comic dynamos
too
old to live too young to die
slow
mutants of inevitability
rooms
206 and 209
where
the unwanted go to die
a
tinge of disappointment
whenever
day breaks or night descends
eggplant
child on tricycle
pisses
near the swimming pool
indeterminate
sex- locked out from the room
of
determined sex and food stamp paydays
Mona
turned to me asked “…is this Amerika?”
--Mike Zone
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