My Middle East



my middle east begins in lower cases
trombones for the mothers and children
trumpets for the lust of killing

every last one of them.

And when they say it's because of my neighbours
my neighbours my neighbours
don't like my attitude.

I get along without you very well.

I want my Middle East in hamburgers
with toasted buns,
maybe an onion here or there
for the tears
but beef, nonetheless.

I want my middle east in beef.

So when they tell me
I love the spotlight,
I'll die for the spotlight,
I'll live for the spotlight,
I'll listen until the next commercial,
I don't know
what the fuck they are talking about.

What is it you want?

The burger, the pickle, the bun?
The salad bar, the weight watcher's chicken?

What I want, if anyone cares,
is a stripper. Maybe two strippers.
A shot of rye and a beer to chase.
I don't know what love is.

Nor do you.

What we know is pain, our game
of making right.