one all powerfull black man is the same as one all powerfull white man

I saw in the New York Times today,
that good ol’ Gitmo Bay
won’t be closed for a while.
these politician crocodiles
dream up new tortured ways
to pass a bill for us to pay;
i’ve given up being sick –
the rest is the body politic,
waiting on dreams of decency…
waiting on you to scream @ me.
I quit reading the wasted Times,
and stare, instead, at breasts
and smiles — legs and asses
set up drearily in low cost designer jeans;
i’ve come here to dream
and your tits aren’t helping.
I imagine fingering your soft holes,
first gently, then holding you down
to keep your convulsions
from distracting my stabbing probes:
of course, your hair gets pulled
until I’ve got a few strands between my fingers:
dark curly threads
that remind me of the origin of the universe,
twisting your body into yogic knots:
I don’t really want to fuck,
just want to see you writhe.
The news leaves me disinterested and void:
your moans escape out the window,
never touching my ears;
it is not from feeling devoid –
no, punching your crotch
is filled with rage – a belly full of too much sauce
poured liberally conservative –
your easy eyes darting furtive:
future children might hear
of your exploits with travelers…
but the news papers will never report
on our 45 minute love affair.