Green(gas)lit District

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

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