Our World
“Our World”
by Positive Mark
As we all seek a world to be contained in, our peek-out is the news. For those of you less beautiful, I gift fried chicken and the blues.
Horns with a muted bellow for every dead fellow who never made it out. Tight dresses for baby’s mommas, so those bodies leave no doubt.
Pitches peak on slammaday and slumday, then dive by Monday.
Jazz strained by too much salt. It’s food called soul. It ain’t our fault.
I’ve had no chill since Emmit Till.
Percussion is dulled by a pocket of pills. Contained in a world where we’re killed.
Gorilla pimps and ‘rillo scents, when will our world be healed?
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