Ode to the 99 cent store, and: On Rage

Ode to the 99 cent store

You a kind of utopia,you know. God’s garage.Counterhegemonic magic,how you tug on dollar billuntil it becomes open field,how you mock semiotics openly,proffering products which often belieyour professed mission, your wondrousintentions, these too-expensive toasters, fragiledishes, ironing boards that make mom appeal to AmericanExpress as backup, her escape route from unplanned shame.You ain’t have to do us like that. But I peeped game. I know you justlike everyone else, hoping to hustle your way off this ziggurat block,all these poor folks stacked on top of each other like tropes. Your true currencyis the cheer of children, the love of learners under duress, black & whitenotebooks I still call upon in hopes that these, my most harried dreamsmight have rest, shelter when smartphones give in, fading to moonlesswan like everything else around here. You persist. You tenaciousmeditation on excess. You candy bars & batteries when pilotlights kissed us no more & Peanut Chews were the besthigh we knew or could afford. You smorgasbord.You sweet ecology. You philosophy of boysthat have not yet learned the wiring of value.You neon name. You anti-nihilism.You clarion call to the righteoussinging come fill and be filled.

On Rage

Be honest. Who’s unafraid                              of the Big, Bad, BiggerThomas? The omnipresence                              of Knockout games & flash mobs & black boysin clothes that don’t fit, droves that won’t quit                              stealing what can’t be replaced: guiltless sleep,the comfort of a block when its blank.Inner-city                              becomes code word for wars the State made from scratch.                                  Coming up, our mantra was I’m not the one& we weren’t until we were. Until smooth talk                              could no longer keep a policeman’s handsin brackets.                              I don’t remember unlearningthe love & lilt of a first swing,                              what Ms. Reilly saidin 6th grade that defused me.                            But by 8th it was undeniable:these hands were best suited to soft gestures: the silly give               of art class clay,all those quick missives to fairest Rosalinda:                              my awkward cursive, like a swan’s neck                              against the paper.                           Still, this is where I keep the chimerachained, how I summon the squall back into my body for keeps.                              I read Baldwin on the train & talk to myselfabout love as an ethical imperative, all that keeps death                              at the distance of theory.