How I Really Feel, AKA Politically F’ing Correct

I’ve been sitting on this mountain peak

in the middle of the city for at least a week.

Today, while I was talking to a yellow marshmallow

my peep sights caught you red handed,

stealing from a crippled man’s cup.

Styrofoam hopes gone in a minute

just because you’re low on paper spinach;

just because your habit has left you without any cream.

Two blocks over we watched a woman

with a cardboard arrow dance and point

toward a towering condominium

that only two percent of the population can afford.

The irony is, two feet away

two kids break their hearts

on a flattened cardboard box to fresh beats;

and this bitch with the sign

is making double their daily income in two hours.

Minutes later, in front of the courthouse

we see our thieving crackhead friend from before

beg for some “spare change”

from a weeping woman battling for custody of her baby,

who’s headed into the shady corner store

to buy a pack of huggies and some newports, with her foodstamps.

As the conversation between me and this chick

cools out, once the blunt has been passed;

nuclear reactor number three heats up in Tokyo,

and the red cross forgets about Haiti,

and the united nations continues to do nothing in Darfur.

So until this SHIT! is fixed;

I’ll continue to sit on this rooftop

and protest the general consensus,

of how terrible your lives are

because gas cost three dollars and eighty six cents a gallon.