Victory

There is no Rescue Mission where it isn’ t freezing
from the need that created it. The lost children

distill to pure chemical. Where Good is called No-Tone
it’ s the one who cries out who doesn’ t get a coat.

The children fuse colors because they don’ t want to
separate. Daughters shot off of hydrants who cut

each other in the neck and gut, don’ t care
which one of them will end up later in surgery.

And drugged sons pretending to be costumes,
well, they’ re not welcome to comprehension either.

Why does a wild child confuse a moon
with a hole in his skin?

One was born soaked in gin.
His first sip was from a bottle of denial.

What can “leave me alone” mean after that?
The system is settled, dimensions fixed.

Another one’ s hand feels like a starfish.
Makes me hysterical like the word perestroika.

But they all dig the way the pepper is rosy in the vodka.
It’ s verbocity that creates jokers.

Brick and grit are the candy and frosting
where volunteers and teachers write cards that go:

“Donate books that say NOT and NO and poets
who say Urn instead of Oh.”

How do the children convert their troubles
into hip-hop? Dunno — but it’ s wonderful.