when orla was cleaved from her cunt
the two were cast asunder
one was situated in Bensonhurst
and the other was relegated to an altitude of 5000 feet

the head read
at 5000 feet: world systems theory, post colonialism and postmodern grind
rubbing, rubbing, against a splintered chair leg, a crooked sign post in a crack slum
or the thigh of the condescending tenured professor pimping for the system
all lovely mental masturbations of self aggrandizement
the ruminations machinations and discontent
of deconstructed democracy
dear mr. Sklair
my mind is terribly rent
who the hell is the transnational capitalist class
and why should I care
if my nation states are 10 kinds of string-y states
all permeable and stretchy
like my uterine walls
grieving that no baby is happening this month or for the next seventy five till
my very last egg has wobbled out of my ovary
like a renegade Joan of Arc
burnt at the stake for servitude and vigilance
gimme my goddamn cherry flag and let me pray
an allegiance to my founding father myth
with his beard that reeks of nutmeg-cinnamon-spice-pipe tobacco and misogyny
so lovely and forgiving like santa on the night before
gimme my markdown prices cause we’s a one income family
how the hell can I pray
when my kids bellies are growlin’ with fierce rage
and hunger
it makes me want to picket my next door neighbor
for having the in ground pool that I don’t

so I don’t vote
I am shiftless
unmotivated
and not certifiably sure
my voice will be heard

ceptin’ when I yells an’ hang up on the surveyors
who asks me whether or not I is votin’ in dis here election

I need some good green beans
and some butter
and my car insurance too
who’s gonna help me wit’ dat I wonder
mr. black or ms.White
neither I realize
‘cause they ain’t puttin’ my kids thru college
so’s they can be the next power elite smilin’ faces on the scripted pages of standardized print

when orla was cleaved from her cunt
her mind began to wander
and realize that
orgasm ain’t no kind of cure for equality
and the heavens surged with some miserable kind of lassitude called rain
and the desert valley
of painted caves and skies
and raped women
wept

the lord my god has given me the
sight
and god how I love my vacuum cleaner
and my fixed rate mortgage that
blankets my
mind
and keeps me from seeing my transitory image
in a broken mirror of democracy.

and my pussy ached
for the man called god
threatened to put my ass into jail
if I didn’t behave and call the state my church
so’s I don’t vote
and my pussy grieved for the freedom of anarchy
of a non violent, stateless churchless mind blowing sort of anarchy
where women wear their mind on their sleeves and the men bow before them