KFC, Falls of Neuse Rd., 22 January 2007

KFC, Falls of Neuse Rd., 22 January 2007

When a sub-culture dies, the world gets dragged,
Toes pointed up, and appropriately tagged.
You battle to work your way up the scale
But now it’s three bucks for a pint of ale.
Blue collar means work at the new KFC,
Good jobs, and vacation days moved overseas.
You can play gangster but you know it’s no game,
Or you can throw down to attain fleeting fame.
You can educate your way out of this mess,
But cubicle jobs only go to the blessed.
Blessed to be white in a world full of color,
Blessed not to know what it’s like to live under
The rules meted out and enforced by the law:
So do you tell them what you just saw?
Or are you inclined to let it slide,
While children cower, their Dad’s full of pride,
But most likely part of those already jailed,
The cross is salvation, but who’s next to be nailed?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Found at Tony’s

Found at Tony’s

The goliath head walks sharp edges between
love and duty. The last innocent man confronts
killer angels with a “gift” from Washington, D.C.
At swim, two boys chat about how to get what
you want and want what you have. A scavenger
hunts Darwin’s children; a pale horse coming in
a blue angel night with a spycatcher mounted
tries to save grave Maurice, but a river runs
through it, breaking the covenant with the
Corsican. The White House connection gives rise
to the night of the moonbow, causing the
charioteer to commit the fourth deadly sin. Father:
unknown screams “don’t kill me,” catches the
bayou train on blind faith, knowing childhood’s
end awaits at the morning gate. A double coffin
opens to a Kentucky surprise, no place to come to,
as the murder in the house was the final target.
This reunion in death lasts a split second, as
an old school tie is not strong enough to battle
the footprints of God. Blood and rubles, the enemy
within, triple the agony from Alaska to the Caribbean,
now a cold paradise for Horowitz, the Chess teacher.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Caterpillar

Caterpillar

Over fifty scraps lie scattered across from the mission
and Salvation Army in Raleigh’s Moore Square. A cop
on horseback does not pick up. A skinny man heads
west on Person, his shoulder bag is a red square around
a black square. The nautical flag for hurricanes comes to
mind, as Mrs. Miller’s fourth grade runs a Frisbee relay, ten
yards removed from the daily horrors of homelessness. Now
Norm, purple-shirted attendant, starts to sweep trash, dump
trash, and greet the park’s residents with a cheery “good morning.”
It’s 40 ounces, a Newport pack, toothpaste boxes, Styrofoam
cups. “It’s messier than usual today,” he gimps on his way to
another litter zone. Miller’s museum magnet kids are already
back inside when three empty school busses and an empty
trolley motor past. This reminds you of the sixty busses you saw
parked under water in New Orleans, and the white cops who
wouldn’t let black residents flee Katrina’s flood, and the
traumatic gait Norm still succumbs to while picking up trash,
and the four-year-old boy holding the bottle that feeds his baby
sister, and the sign at Denny’s offering a chance to contribute to
the hurricane fund, and the caterpillar currently crawling up your
leg, just needing a friend. You remove another caterpillar, the wind
gusts, and another man in purple walks through Oak’s mud, backpack
full to brimming, striding quickly, nowhere to go. Brown caterpillar returns
for a third visit. “What makes you so special?” you think, rising to leave.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The End

The End

Self segregation naturally evolves when less than 10 percent of the population has dark skin. A private school in the south, say Ravenscroft, founded 1854, incorporates African Americans for the purposes of athletics. Naturally, only the daring among them date uppity white girls, or pimply white boys. Any suggestion of sexual activity, even white on white, is taken way too seriously at this place, which stinks, nay rots from the drunken ghosts of plantations just now knocked down to make room for another mall. This year’s drought, 30 hurricanes, ridiculed folks songs at the coffee shop, earthquakes, tsunami, wars, unbreathable air, go straight past most Ravens, since they’re in the state playoffs, have a dandy set of cheerleaders, and celebrate victories at the taproom, parents in tow. There is only so much oil, then water, then food left for us overpopulated greed mongers, which means, if you’re not ready to huddle with family, or ready to accept the quirks of new friends, or to lay plow to earth, axe to tree, blood to protect it all, your kin won’t be the ones who see past the Mayan calendar or past Nostradamus, or 2050, if you will. If 80-in-October, flooding in New England, and scarcity in general haven’t clued you in, certainly the news won’t tip you off either. “What is it about golf and blow jobs,” the alien asks, on his way back to the Maquiladoras. “What is it about anoncephaly and gender-based dormitories with 60 beds per room?” you reply, pushing back a tear from under the mirror sunglasses and border patrol uniform. “What of a democracy, Bolivian style, if they elect Morales, the Cocoa king? How do you like Hugo Chavez style Venezuela, Mr. Bush? When, when, when-when will it all end , or how, or how soon, or, worst of all, how often?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Fayetteville Mall, September 5, 2002

Fayetteville Mall, September 5, 2002

In the shade across from the Wake County Courthouse
An entire row of folks wait. They wait anticipating
The crown-stripped Miss North Carolina, and others.
“Mary,” who carries a baseball bat, handcuffs, and
Thirty bracelets, watches as the Capital’s finest walk
The worn out bricks of Fayetteville Street Mall.
The thick stench of racism pollutes beautiful fall air.
Sympathetic eyes search for compassion as workers
Dismantle metal scaffolding, a job well done. Lily pads
Float, bald-headed briefcase toter huffs and puffs up nine
Stairs. Sturdy capitalists go by: easy targets. Unaware.
A local high princess displays her hair seriously. Orange
Outfits mix with cell phones, coffee and power lunches.
No rich people come out of the court losers, but many
Weeping wives head back to Person Street frustrated
By a system gone awry. They too are easy targets.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.