Black Boots

Black Boots

Black crow flying circles

staring down at me

mocking cynic.

Crowned king of evil by some

to others a circus act.

Black crow outside my window

cawing for his lover.

“Come make eggs with me,”

He says as he sits

on a limestone clinic

“Come shoot the butcher of Baghdad,

Have abortions will travel,

Shoot him eye for an eye.”

The black crow’s chest is pumped

ready to laugh at the man with a gun

sipping tea with sisters wearing

Swastikas and sickles.

Rodeo clowns with broomsticks up their ass

Where’s my old friend Martin?

Fly to Selma black crow

and don’t let the black man rise

keep him down

anvil crown.

Crunch his head like a soft melon

with black boots shined with spit

wading in the Mississippi mud

waiting for a flower’s bud,

his orange hair feathered like a bird

ready to kill.