Baby I Scar; draft #3

this one goes out to all the
hoodwinking evangelists who think
that I am not abused assaulted burned victimized
sexy or smart enough
that I haven't been driven into the thick mud under my foot
a day after the rain
black tongues with burned black talk

do I not pay taxes to this great whirlpool windmill
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when my people keep shitting in the shallow
end or on the news, cannibals eating the hearts out of others.

we are one and one are we, being that the verb goes singular to plural;
that's just how grammar works, maybe accident prone does fate
mix of chemicals and colors in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings cast sprinkled shadows off the cabin's far corner
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomiting on forest green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs before they rush through your veins
before I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

not dead I still have an opinion on what it must be like to die
I will fail long before or after celebrity's made famous
for dodging questions land jawbone first onto razor sharp exit ramps
or a country made famous for lack of luck
lands dismal fate laid low
(sometimes in mind by us and everyone).

And aren't I complicit in this machine
stealing thoughts and body functions
takes and doesn't give back leaves only lacking:
they have an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
they see in 3-d.

My skin may not burn but I scar baby I scar.