I hope this is the ugliest, retching poem you ever read, and I hope it makes you uncomfortable and I hope you vomit when you think about it

I tried to love you like Jesus
Because you’re the sick that need healing
You’re the orphans and the widows
But I came home and cried because
I’m no great physician and
My eyes are almost as heavy as my heart

Illness and infection and scowling and judgment line these streets
And misery hangs on your clothes lines
And you are beautiful people,
But this is the ugliest place in the world

See that boy there?
The shirt that is too small for him?
It has been for the past 3 years
And will be for the next 2
Then his brothers can use it
For the decade after that

And cloudy days are scary because
The rain leaks through tin roofs and walls and doors
And mud cakes you like makeup
On the clowns at rich kids’ birthdays
And the mosquitos are always worse
Immediately preceding every storm
Then for days and days and days after that.
How are you supposed to work in the rain?
If you can find work at all.

The sun isn’t any better though
Because have you ever
Smelt poverty
Spoiled rotten and sour and forsaken by it?
Like milk left out too long
“Hah! And how am I supposed to buy milk today?”
It always too hot
It’s always sticky and
How are you supposed to work in the sun,
If you’re one of the lucky ones with work at all?

That sour smell of cracking backs
And crack cocaine
And craked concrete floors
stains your clothes
And your hands and your children.
And your hands aren’t ever clean,
But some of your souls are.
The rest are lost, or used to pay
The devil’s debt of your father
Or uncle
Or brother.
That devil lives across the street
In a barred windowed house
And he brings you his trash
“Here, find your blessing in this, scum”
And some days your dogs eat better than you,
But they don’t have any decency at all.
You at least can hold your pride
In the same arms as your newborn
Because when it’s hot there’s not work
And when it’s wet there’s not work
And when you’re idle you’re lonely
And everyone else is too,
So you fake love for a few hours
But these tender children hardly know their mothers
Or how to spell their own names

You're not listening, you don't understand me
They’re people
They’re people
They’re people
But our animal farm has made them cows
Knee deep in this shit hole
Piling into pickup trucks
And garbage trucks
And ambulances
Like the cows we make them
Headed to slaughter
But they’re not stupid
They’re not ignorant
They're not pathetic
They are angles and demons
Just like you
Just like me

Children walk barefoot here
Cut their soles on broken windows and beer bottles
And trash is still burning in their front yards
And their own people will always mark them as
The seven years of famished cows