From the Fishouse

I kissed my American girlfriend
& drank an American beer

on my cheap American chair.
How else will I get through to you?

I spit on your face, Puerto Rico.
I fuck around & when I come home,

you make me coffee.
You stink like fast-food meat.

Your stretchmarks are as red
as the red letters of K-Mart.

I’m telling you this because
I love you, you know. I love you

& distance makes difficult things
even more difficult, but necessary.

Because the footnotes of repression
have spun your history on its axis

& your flagposts are corroded
by the salt of compliance.

Our culture is a pair of Adidas
dangling from telephone lines

& a small child reaching up,
fists gripping air,

arms brief & contained
like the two o’s of colony.