As if our city were poison and they
cookies n cream, as if we poisoned
our own drying wells
as if we’re going to hell faster, harder,
they saw on Breaking Bad our junkyards
our precious sky-wrapped
watermelon foothills where some bad
crazy-cop mistakes were made
I called them once, APD, when a neighbor’s
house was, empty, getting robbed
but they, APD, knocked at my door
the whole swat team had taken a knee
their rifles aimed at me
wow, I said “wrong house.” They write about us
you know, Salon, the Huff Post—
As if unrest were for smallish cities, look
what happened when we tried to close
the Frontier during drug n thug hours?
A freakin riot and the mayor said ok ok ok!
The people do have some power.
What I like about Albuquerque is that tunnel
in Jemez where the Lone Ranger comes through
in a train n all
it may as well be a drone bomb drop
—so much blood we coulda bathed in it.
Memories of genocide; not a movie for kids
that wasn’t my Lone Ranger. cops vs
homeless; the US vs anyone,
military driving production machine
our kids dying from the flood of
smack and speed pouring
blood over the border
yes, they talk but it’s ironic
as if our cops had broken bad but the rest
of us sweet as honey in a soapapilla
this weekend’s NYTimes rated us
a fourth, a seventh, and a third place
for happiest places to live, to relax, to have
a strong sense of well-being.