lagos to detroit to the stars

the world is nothing but packing and taping
sellotaped boxes of marketed things
xeroxed copies tagged in ceasar’s numbers
packaged and boxed in numerical order
and then nothing

wrapped knuckles boxing gnats,
refusing plastic bags from bakers whom
give not a second thought to land fills
and trash. little concern for litter
for the wonderful plentiful plastic particles
dancing in the lungs in the good friday fish

and i wonder why i care
i grew up with dust bins and gutters
men on bicycles packing shit to take to the squatters
“suckaways” not sewers,
running water from bored holes, hand fans
and sore throats, from screaming 
at sour domestic help, never from the cold
it was never cold, 
except when air conditioners
turned to freezers,
and fans swung so hard and wheezed
barely cutting the night’s hot piss
dripped down on in a hot stream
on every, man woman child and first born
cattle, insect, leaf and maggot
that ever lived in the god forsaken
but dearly precious, red clay soil
of black people boils bursting into
that particular dance of smelled rain on cement
stained sea men, swimming in relief from the heat

when the seniors remanded the good air to them
the juniors tossed and turned in sweat
dreaming of bucket showers

in the heat and boredome
a generation was waiting for college after highschool 
but before visas
drowning our thumbs in tekken, mario kart
and clenched kisses, from cable show teasers

nothing has changed except the mushrooms
are not only in video games, the world’s still the same
its always about you, always about me
and how disappointingly apathetic we are
from lagos to detroit to the stars… still the same old.

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