Ralph-Michael Chiaia

Sorry, honey
Sorry, ten guys beating me
Sorry, police who made me sit in my own urine
Sorry, guy who bought my bar and got a criminal charge brought against me by driving a kid to the hospital who ripped the tendons in his ankle by kicking me in the ribs
Sorry, foreclosed landlady for giving you money to repay the loan you defaulted on
Sorry, to make you sue me for 3,000 when you owe over 300,000
Sorry, loan shark, Sang Il, who is suing my landlady
Sorry that my landlady didn’t take the rent money I paid for three years and use it to repay the original bank loan
Sorry, new owner that you have to kick us out
Sorry, Israel for my support of Palestinians trying not to be refugees by repeatedly mocking your dumb rhetoric
Sorry, Mayan Indians, Triqui Indians, and all others who have been displaced

In Korea you see old women carrying babies on back (but they’ll never forgive the Japanese or Americans)
But in the refugee camps in Chiapas you see babies on the backs of young girls cause siblings care for siblings after their parents and grandparents are gone

Sorry, bitchy woman in restaurant for being too loud playing with my son
Sorry, sorry, sorry, for all of it
You’re right, honey, it’s all my fault

Up & up & up & the sun
sang timbale licks
our one sun, our star, long
before the timbale was invented
before the licks & chops
were translated into K’iche’
& this is obvious on this path here
around the back of the step-pyramid.
Ants rush up-down
their expressways–half carrying leaves
half going to the tree to cut.
I walk the blue-red clay-ground
to three stunning pyramids, tucked into
the toes of a Ceiba tree’s massive feet
three ant-mountains with fire red ants
swarming around their proud structures
precisely built with what archaeologists
would say is limited technology:
a society without the wheel or metal tools
built behemoth mountains
which rival that of any skyscraper:
these ants leave the leaves to ferment
inside, to drink later.
I see behind the Ceiba tree’s muscular leg
behind the striations of the bark:
another behemoth:
the blood-red Mayan Temple of Masks
where carved Mayan men
kings, seers, shamans, daykeepers
are said to have been
able to cross the galaxy
by crossing their legs.
I sit & cross my legs.
I do not yet travel–
though i will!–
but find myself staring at ants
who march robotically
controlled by an unknown light
in the universe
to a cross-legged human observing
up through at in onto the canopy
a vine sunbathes on top
below the tree it has
wrestled into submission
withers and dies
a dead heavy leaf
falls.

Like this, it has begun.

1. force her to pleasure you
2. then act really sweet
3. make her come
4. promise her a carriage ride
5. call her princess
6. now the slut’s all yours
7. defile at will
8. tear her into pieces
9. throw ticker tape parade for yourself with her pieces of soul

no one knew it was him
millions saw carnage
DESTRUCTION ON HIS MIND

Picture watching the epitaph:
he rioted for reason
he rioted for blackberries

revolution should be flames
all we got is facebook,
hold on i have a notification

God, these god emails always have a catch!
“He is watching you read this email
If you don’t forward it he will remember the slight

on judgement day!”
Fire. Fear. Brimstone.
One, I thought you earlier said he was forgiving,
Two, Pol Pot wasn’t watched, was he?

You are all alone and you’re going to die.

slow it down
pull up a comfortable chair
light a cigarette
pour yourself a glass of wine
ladies put down vogues
the makeup the textbooks
pull up a chair
and listen
you hear that
quiet, that voice to let it fly.
reading to you
that’s your voice. know when the time comes
to shred it, to rock it
take your will
speak
in volumes.

you must
stamp things, sign them,
count, subtract, categorize
when does it end?
can’t we just let it all go?

do what you want when you want?
wait–sign here!–now you can
at least, till the notary gets here
then you’ll need to be fingerprinted
have your blood taken, stool sampled
show ID and your good to go again

till the magistrate arrives, then they’ll
flog you, tickle you, and publicly heckle you
till the president comes
at which point you’ll need to lawyer up
to ask for a pardon
or lobby to ask for a revolution
backed by people who are tired
of stamping, signing, and counting
things for other people

they will overthrow the notary,
the magistrate, and the president

and replace them with new posts
with new names

who can’t wait to make those overthrown
start signing, stamping, and counting their things

while you create an excel inventory of it