The Magic City

This place has been scarred
since the white man showed up
damaged and broken.
It’s poison
It’s forever reaching
mediocrity
and obtaining it
every time.
This is a place
once under water
that needs to be washed
of its bullshit.

It’s a place you leave
get talked into coming back
and manipulated into staying
Before you know it
you’re stuck.
A place where the red lights
last excruciatingly long
and the green lights
not long enough.
Nothing moves.

It’s a place that smells
of lilacs and cats piss
in the spring
and the sugar factory
smells like a fart in the fall.
A place surrounded by refineries
and little by little
the sweet alfalfa smells
are fewer and fewer.

It’s a place that plowed over it’s
small farms of corn and wheat
and replaced them with
with chain restaurants
evangelical churches
strip malls
apartment buildings
and golf courses
on the final remnants of a prairie.
Houses that look the same
that few can afford
all built within a month of each other.
Economically thriving for the select
economically depressed for the rest.
A place hanging on to its heritage
In one hand while taking bids on it
with the other.

Progressiveness and this place
are in direct conflict
and most people
have been brainwashed
into voting against their own
interests for the sake
of god and guns.

This place has few women
only girls with daddy issues
who waste your time.
The men are “bros”
equating masculinity
with violence
and promises never delivered
while overlooking
what is in front of them.
We are all broken.

This place prefers casinos
and karaoke
over live music
and culture barely breathes
unless approved by those
of financial gain.
The soul of this place is dead
and how can one be content
in a place where it’s neon soul
is on life support
and there’s a line of people
ready to pull the plug.

This place is cocaine laced
with fentanyl
and it’s convulsing
on the kitchen floor.
It’s a puddle of piss
In a downtown alley
next to a dumpster
on fire.
It’s a Sunday morning hangover
where you puke
blood orange malaise
and existential dread
and repeat to yourself
“This isn’t my life
This isn’t my life.”
This place is contemplating suicide
but too goddamn tired
to end it.