I walk to the market on Sunday morning. I walk over the line that separates the hotels and the stores from the drugs and the shopping carts.

In front is a white couple. To my right is a black dude.

They are blonde. He has a bowl cut.

Everyone is wearing jeans,

except for me. I am wearing black pants.

I was just told I am a Caucasian queen American dream.

“Keep talking white boy. Keep talking. You’re gonna get me my money. You and that cop. Or else I’ll stab you. I shoot you. I’ll shoot you to death. Keep talking. You hear me,” says the bowl cut.

They are not listening.

I giggle, a little.

It’s unusually warm today.

The sun shines.

“Did you hear what I said to him?” I am asked.
“Yep.” I say in my oblivious voice.
“You’ll get me my money.”
“What money?” I am having fun. And hoping that his psychosis doesn’t turn violent.
“’What money?’! You know what money. You’re pushing that money.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You’re white. The white man is pushing that money. Your hand’s pushing that money. Who’s on the dollar? A black guy or a white guy?”
“A president.” I remember that Ben Franklin was never a president. It doesn’t matter.
“It’s a white guy on that dollar. Where’s my dollar?”
“Maybe when you become president.”
“You all are gonna die. You’ll be at the lake of fire. The land will be ours again.”
“Well.”
“But you just keep pushing them out! You keep sending them out from in between your legs!” He opens his legs as we walk.

“Hey baby what chu doin?” A black boy looks me up and down.

I turn around to get a look. His mouth is full of gold.

I am looking for someone to have casual sex with.

I don’t think I can take a grill seriously.

“You can have your black bastard children! They’ll die too!” He goes right.
“Okay bye.”

Now it’s time to buy apples.

Art:

maryhoulihan.blogspot.com