Daddy WTO, I beg you pardon.
I don’t know what I do to get you so vex
for you to not even spit on me, as if I not
even there. You take away my hands, my legs
and now my nose, my eyes, my ears, I can still feel
through my heart, the pain that rips my country
like a rage, impoverishing the poor, with nothing
to sell. I slipped an’ fell on a banana peel
today, in Geneva. Since I have nothing more
to lose, I begin losing my mind. What to do
daddy, for you to understand I have hungry
mobs to charm and don’t want your hand-me-downs.
.
Stuck to this font I cannot change, I cut and paste
my case in cyber space, hoping someone will read
the brief and plead me insane after I swamp
the hall in shit, that’s all I have left to export.
That, and a few lame goats, shitting BB pellets
to load in my antique daisy gun to defend
my beach when you come ashore with your trade marines
and pitch your hotel along the entire length
of public access, land your dumpster on my toe
and block my forward march with garbage. My nose splits,
sifting through scents, but this one stinks, mortar and lime,
all new stock for Massa’s new plantation house.
.
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tongues of the ocean 