Fuck you and your twenty-six point two,
and fuck the Escalades, two by two, white by white,

I’m waiting for protection.

Thirteen point one, you’re fucking done.

All around, I might be blind,

but there aren’t any cupped hands

managing my day.

The fuckers who wear their labels.

There’s love in the maze,

but they don’t take my dinero.

What I see with twenty-six point two,
they roll me on the microwave turntable,
kicking my poisoned kidneys,
choking and strangling my god

who rides a bicycle

without a helmet,

hugging the curb.

Thirteen point one runs over my god,
splotches on Escalades,

there will never be cupped hands.

Fuck me and my dead spirit.

I ain’t worth one point two.