What Lives in the Pocket of my Handbag

Metallic taste in my mouth,
sand between my teeth.
Electric red heat
flows from my heart 
to my shoulder blades
where razor-tipped wings push
beginning to sprout.
Tearing.

I walk almost
alone
past shops.
Their neon lights read
sweat, blood, and pride
sold here.
The face confronting mine
reads
"Give me your purse
bitch."
What did you expect
when globalization has been
white-
washed
across culture?

Tingling pain aches 
in the base of my stomach.
Freezer-burned marbles
ingested one by
one
sharpened on my tongue
and spat back out.

A voice on the radio is far too
composed.
A partly cloudy evening with a high of 
fifteen.
We go now to news of 
self 
importance, qualifications and credentials.
I cal home looking
for sympathy
and find instead an
argument
on modern society.
No, Mom,
I don't 
think
it's a race
thing.

Bones sweat
tremble even.
A cold hand grips,
spreads like spiders' webs
and creeps like Jack Frost.

Newspapers are reporting
rising crime
in the area.
But, we don't have enough 
information
to follow up
on your
case.
There are too many 
in the area
that fit that
profile.

I want to laugh so hard
I cry.
Hot salt tears
acidic enough
to remove graffiti;
big black spattered
scars
that have laid claim
to my vitality.