The Beachheads of Galilee

I am strong.

Is that too snobbish for you?

I admit most women and men’s strength

far exceeds my trench of thought

but I know about wrong and right more than many,

less than some.

Being born in a manger doesn’t get it for me,

a step towards tribalism,

a graduated step towards modernism

not modern thought.

Worshiping in mansions and super domes

Is like Pink Floyd,

Queen,

Beatles.

Your Jesus, your God, and Holy Ghost

left for Tahiti years ago,

first class seating on the U.S.S. Striker

I can only guess their whereabouts today.

Dead I suppose.

Sent to sea on a raft with burning coconuts.

Reaping

Every picture strikes a chord, a scenario

of years long gone, long hidden.

I’ve forgotten my forefathers, hard

working farmers, victims of Depression,

war, disease, lost friends. You’re gone.

Soon, too soon we follow our own parade.

Someone said once “one day older,

one day closer to the end.” I ask the end of what,

the end of a hard day’s work, shoveling stalls,

reaping fields of wheat, or reaping the dead

from wars declared by the rich, the arrogant,

narcissistic kings living in gold and silver

while their followers sleep in hovels declaring

victory over their hard days, slavery never sleeps.

Bus Ticket to Heaven

Death it seems to me is just a movement,

a bus stop in Cleveland I don’t know,

just a crowd of faceless faces

waiting for another ride.

Browns, Blacks, Whites,

pimps, whores alike

just waiting for another bus

to St. Louis, finally St. Peter’s.

Cinderellas won’t ride a night tram,

no night coach for them

strictly Amtrack’s club car

taking a double decker to heaven.

Imagine death if you can

sweep the dirt

chase those skeletons,

take the last bus out of town.

It’s a two-way trip for some,

for others a two year warranty.

God loves you but if you come by bus

check the final destination on your ticket.

The Very Last Supper

Spread before me the last supper

menu items bread, wine a dance with Mary,

a man with a camera,

tape recorder and a burly guard with handcuffs.

I have done unto the poor, to the least of these,

what I couldn’t do for you.

Say cheese and snap a picture,

a still photo landscape of what’s left.

I fear that God and number forty-five

have brought about the apocalypse

minus one percent.

Bonnie or Johnny

Nazi lover with cheekbones high and smooth

will you still love me in World War Three?

Will fascist boots break my neck for a color?

Someone wrote human kind are dead, moving dead.

We have lost our daddies, friends try to bring them back.

Daddy went home. He and momma are smoking weed

in the neverlands of purgatory, heaven, hell, maybe paradise.

We don’t know now do we dear? What’s next? What’s not?

Could be cold, could be hot. Could be Johnny or Bonnie

flying in from Montgomery on a six-string or a smooth slide.

We know Nazi girl that no one knows the sound of black boots like us.

Farewell Toto

You gave nothing back in your departure.

I wanted, needed words of comfort, love, wisdom.

I wanted you to use the word “love” just once

in our seventeen years of war, violence, scatless romance.

What a flat rock we created through the winds of nihility.

We germinated from different plants, different cracks you see.

I left it all behind garnering dreams, wishes, hopes. I made my way

back to reality and the cold steel of truth, painful, unhealing.

So have a great afterthought, afterlife, or afterbirth. It’s your call.

The Fuse

 

It is what it is so say so many,

a cover, a blanket for our lost.

Mere children of the squandered

hearts next door. Next door

can be eternity, devastation of innocence.

Guns in drawers just for fear,

maybe kill a bigga nigga. Red necks

worry in their sleep and fishing boats.

Aint no secret tho, your neighbor’s a ho.

Aint no secret our potentate’s a ho.

His ass ass smellin’ up the pews

His god smellin’ up our world with a fuse

lit and ready to kill them bigga niggas.

(Language used is for artistic purposes only)

Purposeless

Finite life passes before your eyes,

infinite life stays for others to see.

Count, don’t count, whatever you decide.

For me, everything passes my windows

never waving, never smiling, blank.

It’s all blank you see, tomorrow clean,

yesterday a smeared chalkboard.

Can’t I stay a little longer just to kiss

your kissable lips, lips I’ve loved

forever, our forever, just one more night.

Orange Hell

Toothpaste cannot return to its tube.

Racism cannot fit back into its cave,

KKK, white ho boys, white knuckles,

white face, white kings, white pussies,

go hide behind your fires, behind your bias.

Who are you? You are scarred, the strapping

on your asses will give you away to your phony god.

What have you become, farm boys from Harvard?

Your orange haired temper tantrum hides beneath

the cover of his boot lickers. Fatten him up for Satan

and the doors to a dark world will open letting the hounds

eviscerate his cowardice. He is dead before the bullet makes it way.

Motel 6

God’s got me in his back pocket,

black billfold, plastic driver’s license,

and a sense of my demise.

He’s too busy trying to find a way to speak

to the haters, the arrogant, and legally blind.

What’s He going to say? “Hey you

find a fish, a bottle of wine and march

across the Sea of Gallilee. Look

for your nearest Motel Six. I left a light on.”