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 crow flying circles
staring down at me
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
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.
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’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.”
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
if you see the pebbles
in my soul?