PoetryOn A Bus : March 8th 2012 Repeated

Why do you revile!    this book of poetry    I read?       Why do your stubby    fingers shake! with    anger?       Why does your upper lip quiver?    as your blood pressure    rises! Spatially imprisoned,    conditioned to beleive    beauty is useless and unproductive.       Can´t you understand!  Your    ugliness is as beautiful as    this book of poetry I read    you so revile.       I am, you are    citizens of a black mass    on Gray´s gray line    from infinity to infinity    Like Bus Stops on the circular    getting on at one stop    getting off at another,    while the bus travels on    full of Abuelas yelling:    Puerta! Puerta! Puerta!    when the driver refuses    to move slow enough    for their bones.             History has gotten over you.    The next generation has gotten over you.    Someday, I will get over you.    But, will you one day get over you.    Idolatry comes in subtle forms    and consumerism is not the engine,    but you, you alone, are stupid enough    to believe the Bus Stops begin and end    with tri-corner mythology.       I was once your Marine-Hero    burning, raping, pillaging,    killing; feeding the grass    the blood that makes it grow.    Carried those stereotypes    proudly upon my chest    above and left of my heart    you lap up like a dog    in those thoughtless    box-movie theaters.                                but    tonight I´d rather drink tea    and read the book of poetry    you so revile, and    Wednesday´s are for Yoga,    and communism has been dead  for twenty years.    I´ve seen it´s obituary!    I´ve seen it´s headstone!    I´ve seen it´s occupied    burial plot.  You can stop    and take a punjabi breath       alone, together, indifferent    with one another   on the same gray line.