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Sick

Written by  John Erianne

A Sunday afternoon
standing in the local
Acme supermarket

bruises on my arms —
needlemarks from
one too many blood
tests

and this middle-aged
lady fresh from
church services sneers
at me unkindly
as if I were a homeless
junkie.

And I think of this
guy who used to
hangout around this
shopping center years
ago who was a
homeless junkie

Rusty his name was
and he was always
there in everyone's face
hitting on the women
begging money
filling the air with
his ripe stench

How happy he
seemed as he
rummaged through
McDonalds garbage
bin rescuing half-eaten
cheeseburgers as if they were
buried treasure

and I think I am
no different from
Rusty for
we have both
enjoyed an
American lifestyle
way too much
and it made us sick:

Forget about terrorist
bombs — they can do
no worse then we
are doing to ourselves

Forget about winning
the hearts and minds
of the third world
with meaningless wars —

carpet-bomb them
with Big Macs and
will the planet to
Mickey Mouse.

I stare back at church lady,
smirking
because we are
both hypocrites of a kind.

The schizophrenic
god of abstinence
sits on his throne
injecting humanity
into his veins and
laughs.

 

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