Green(gas)lit District
by Hokis, Senior Editor
at the bottom end of the mouth tube
sphincter held in place.
like an ancient book of rules for
the white cotton masters, this puppeteer,
once again
{tho never started nor stopped}
pulls strings like pins, rips a big one
from hairy anus to dirty hands
of dark-masked light-men
gas fills collapsing grief
calls father’s lungs to sweat
sweet mother’s tears to fall
{sythnetic photo, the never-ending stopping of green}
image created for this poem by Stuart M. Buck
