The Hammer of Hate

I can’t breathe freedom.

My country is choking me,

knee on neck,

my lungs a vacuum.

My country is broken,

my back is broken,

my soul is broken.

I want goodness and mercy,

not the slice of a sickle or

bashing of a hammer.

Freedom must ring once more.

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.

I’ve Walked

So you think I’ve come this far just to die?

You lifted me up when I fell but who’s to say

I shouldn’t have fallen years ago, maybe I should have.

Who’s to say what’s right, what’s worth fighting for?

Some God? I don’t think so. If he walk a path

I missed it, didn’t see the footprints, the broken wine glass.

I am here now, another day older and waiting to die.

Vietnam told me to live. Woodstock told me to love.

Did I listen? Are you listening my friends? Don’t miss

signs along your path, take my word all things must pass.

George Harrison Visited

George Harrison’s ghost came to me one night

sang a song with his guitar. I listened.

He became my God, my mentor, my reason.

His white robe windswept and crying

for a world gone wrong, a world going backwards.

He smiled at me and played another sad song.

“This is for you my friend, always has been.

Wrap your love around her and weep, sleep

now for all things must pass, so too will this life.”

Spring in Paris

Did I mention a dark skinned man

sits alone in a house of white, he’s a target

for a world of pig nose colored bigots?

Bigots wear teabag hats and snakes

curled around their flag, they are god’s children,

scrotum mouthed children, nazi nosed bastards

bullets spinning from their lips.

They love the constitution,

hate the Bible cause they know

Jesus took the last Concord Jet to Paris

and won’t be back, he’s never coming back.


Those grave silent moments when thistles

meet feathers and random falling of tears.

This love so mortal, so un-Jesus is this life we live.

We used to meet in back alleys, forest weeds

where thistles meet sky, those moments

feather light and gray as though the sky knows

more than we, we know only those moments,

naked and silky like a blanket of milkweed beneath us.


Acne covered moon
would a clean night
clear your face
or are the scars
like scars of rape
and loneliness?
I wonder
if you see the pebbles
in my soul?