You and I sat cold by the tent
you were stoned
I didn’t know
could be so bone cracking cold.
We watched campers
moving in and out like ants
on a drop of sweet
it was a vinyl gypsy night
as campfires curled snake smoke
against a carbon ink sky.
The beach was stark empty
you needed friendship
I offered only silence
silence and a beer
you wanted neither.
We smiled as laughter
rolled from nearby tents,
love laughter, bare skin giggles.
No stars shined in a bleak darkness
just a gnawing void never leaving.
God I feel it again today.
At this moment life is a child
swaying in its attempt to walk
without falling to its knees and screaming,
“Help me daddy.” Daddy left for Tulsa.
He’s dancing with a reaper,
carelessly throwing breath to the wind.
His lovers will die before Autumn leaves
touch the summer scorched grass.
Is it time now daddy?
I cannot say Apocalypse. My lips are blue.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Don’t speak of it, no one knows
I’m slowly dying, not a regular death.
You know the kind, family gathered
you show them the event of their lives.
They cry. It’s working you see, eyes gobbling
the back of your sockets. Wow!
Grandpa’s going out with a bang and a twang.
No, not that kind. My death will be bookmarked
by wheezing and whistling of my lungs.
No one will watch. That’s okay you see.
My crooked crab apple will soothe its only friend
hiding its happiness from the humming birds,
friends that never hover near a dying wasp.
It’s a dance I say,
third world American dance
you lead. I’ll follow
pretending I know the steps
no one has ever known.
Illusion of wealth, compassion,
the leader of the band stumbles,
his flute stuck in his fascist mouth.
We are the poor, the sick, the unsung.
Illusion, delusion, and confusion
have dealt the cards we’ve never held.
The King of diamonds wins
He always wins,
just ask Sartre.
Somewhere in the depth of death,
beneath breathing cottontails
which stand like tall candles snuffed
by forgotten fingers, bony and blue
there is an incandescent white
where homeless gods grow
amid natural city predators.
They warn of Armageddon,
but learn the pecking order
and the shame of being weak.
Left arm jiving
motel swinging sign
fingers popcorn poppin’
feet sliding doors dancing
to a tune in my head.
Rhythm ruckus like mob love
sixth avenue never gave a hoot
about singing my heartache.