at the bottom end of the mouth tube
sphincter held in place.
like an ancient book of rules for
the white cotton masters, this puppeteer,
once again
{tho never started nor stopped}
pulls strings like pins, rips a big one
from hairy anus to dirty hands
of dark-masked light-men
gas fills collapsing grief
calls father’s lungs to sweat
sweet mother’s tears to fall
{sythnetic photo, the never-ending stopping of green}
image created for this poem by Stuart M. Buck
Hokis | Poetry 