death to shitheads, wherever they come from.



the sullen, chanceless faces 
of ten million stereotypical Mexicans 
and their lonesome, loathsome boot-
prints in the gas-station parking lot 

dumb, incoherent whispers of gratitude 
in black eyes drawn from exaggeration. 
like so many imitated demeanors some 
timid, boring lie of authenticity. 

those who suffered or tried or perished 
for this 
did so for a kinder spirit, that 
is fragile and yet 
indefatigable, humble argument 
that the soul is only as great as its purpose. 

I hate this country so much yet I can't stop wanting more for it. 







**** 

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