“Richard Stanz”

It was always something, always another black person making fun of me for taking a dump, or telling me how big his genitals were, and then I’d have to go up in front of the class and make a speech, my whole body shaking, I cowered in my room smoking weed and they called the cops, the cloudy mist lures me into perception, a train of men bludgeons in stomping spite within these streets, streets with signs on them, streets so wide, the signs up high, so far away, in the republic, for who? The thought still spins on the hood of this random Chevy Camaro I’m sitting on, and yes, that’s my name, don’t wear it out.