Everyone I know is scared of America.

Rich people are scared of poor people with grimy loose change palms and knife blade fingers shining

in back alleys.

Poor people are scared of rich people flashing perfect teethed smiles over deals that treat poor people like the broken parts of a machine.

White people are scared of black people an inkblot mob staining what was our mall.

Black people are scared of white people slamming down golden door locks and running for speed dial 911

"I don't know who he is -- he's hanging around my yard."

Other people are scared of whoever decided they should bubble in OTHER on scantron sheets, instead of Cherokee and Iraqi, Jamaican, Cambodian.

Kids are scared of amber-bottle parents with no patience, and hard fists.

Parents are scared of kids who won't bow,
with big pants, backward caps
and no respect.

I'm scared of anyone who watches talk shows
and thinks we're any different.

Everyone in crowds is scared of each other.
At the basketball game we sit with one eye on the court,
and the other roaming the stands.
I play a sad, quick pulse version of

" Find the object "--

look over the crowd, try to imagine
exactly where on their body each person
keeps their gun.

Red snow-cone lip boy -- waist band.

Gray - haired arthritic mother -- handbag, near the top.

It's not paranoia when it's true.

In the lane, the center blocks every shot
sends cannon blasts into front row chests
waves his finger at the shooters --

"This is my neighborhood.
Don't come in my neighborhood."

As a child, I based religion on this game --
Okay, if I hit this shot

there's a God.

No, this one.
No, this one.

It was something I could control.

And so it all leads to this --
every door shut in your face
every huge impossible gear grinding
against you
every small failing piling up
brings you here and drops away
everything dropping away for once
for one moment you can control --

On the court, the guard dribbles up with
10 seconds left
.........down by 1.
His teammates isolate him
left side
this one defender left between him and the goal
the entire crowd chanting

Work him! Work him!

In the crowd, a child spills coke
on another child's shoes --
they stand, press face to face
Breath steam into steam

Start your move

It boils down, cleanses itself, to this --
the easy enemy to isolate
the clarity in a clear out
the leather bounce thwack
sneaker squeak
mad dog growl to mad dog growl

Work him! Work him!

jukes
stutters

pulls steel from waistband
crosses over
cocks steel
spins off body
trash talks, Fuck you!

hangs

aims

I can control this

and shoots.