after Alain Ginsberg
And who decides their lives
are worth something other than money,
other than ramshackle race
of living in this country,
who keeps telling me go back to fields,
to cells, to disembodied shells―
that country (she don’t know me)
who says dig and dig and dig until I find
my history in the cool dark
earth: a bride that falls on me,
breath sick with drink asking me to help her up,
her train covered in sticky fingers
grasping for a piece of long white cloth.
Am I the kind of person who decides to fuck
the world and take my body back?