Walkin’ on Salt

Hail to the chief. We have no chief.

Time for the apocalypse I say.

We can’t says a chorus of faded faces

We need a chief before we declare an end

to blood, sweat, tears, and ninety-nine bottles of beer.

So bring on the Agent Orange and burn Seattle,

albuquerque, and Chicago, bring on the brown shirts.

Hell the world can’t end without brown shirts.

Faces fade more and more, voices mere mouthings.

You declare the Orange man to be Jesus.

Jesus and Charlie Manson declared Marilyn

bass guitarist, Juan to fill

while Jesus takes a full walk across Salt Lake City.

I am a Dead Tree

I died on the battlefield,

a simple affair you see.

No taps were played,

no triangulated flag.

Not a normal death of course

just a mind thing

like closing a coffin door

inside my head.

Sounds of bombs and rockets

muted then silenced

soldiers’ lips mouthing screams,

I was frozen like winter grass

In February.

They brought me home

full honors with a six-pack salute.

I’m planted now beneath a window,

a tree growing

in our living room

I love when they water me.

My grandson pees on me,

occasionally the dog.

My days are surely numbered

leaves are falling from my arms.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Butrus’s War

A young boy in Somalia named Butrus cries over his mother’s corpse.  While walking down a dirt road carrying food to her children Aziza came face to face with a jeep full of armed militia.  Despite the guttural catcalls and sexist ranting Aziza held her head high and turned her face away.  She was less than a kilometer away from home when the jeep full of vile soldiers stopped.  The young woman found herself immediately on the ground and six men roughly ripping at her clothing.  Each of the six men body slammed her against the hard earth and each of the six men raped her, not once, but several times until spent.

Aziz’s vagina had been cruelly ripped, so damaged blood poured between her legs as the soldiers stared at her with disgust.  They laughed and sneered until the man with the longest beard aimed his pistol at the beautiful Aziza and pulled the trigger.  The band of vagrant militants hastily jumped back into the jeep and rushed away blowing dirt and rocks onto the body of their victim to further debase the body for which just moments before, they hungered.

Butrus heard a shot and saw in the distance an upheaval of dust.  He feared for his mother and his two sisters, but ran towards the ruckus in spite of danger.  He found her.  There before him was his life, his future, and his only security.  His mother’s corpse covered with dirt and blood stared vacantly into a vacant universe.  Such is life at the hands of hate. Butrus’s story is over.  His sisters’ story is over with the cynical smile of starvation bearing down on the small children with each day that passed.

One Night

One night

I remember sitting on my bunk

polishing my belt buckle

whispers of war filled the barracks air,

not your normal whispers mind you.

They were quiet and edgy like a shadow

scrambling on the back streets of Chicago.

The hushed bullets of fear made me nauseas.

Holding my stomach I willed the sickness away,

readied my uniform for revelry and another day of war games.

I turned my covers just as lights-out

echoed through electric tin speakers.

The hushed whispers became softer yet

more urgent in my mind.

I lay listening to tanks and rapid fire weapons

playing their chorus meant just for rookies like me.

My eyelids felt a need to close

my mind thought about jungles,

bullets whistling through rice paddies

hitting random targets

screaming in the wetness of the jungle.

My eyes moistened when I wondered

why I left you so many thousands of years ago

I promised I would back to love you

but I never did. The end of my youthful war arrived

as I curled up in a ball of emotional isolation.

It was over. Adulthood crushed me like a wrecking ball.

Banana Clips for Heaven

From the streets of Chicago

to rural Newtown,

Denver to Houston

and all between,

the vengeance of mad women

torn old men and brainless boys

kill and fools ask why?

We call our wars just,

to Iraqi children and their mothers,

Afghanistan babies seek grace in Allah.

We brag about our God

as we rattle our sabers and scream hallelujah

vengeance belongs to America

sayeth the Lord and his children.

If a god exists

he has turned his back

to ignorance,

loveless murderers

hiding behind bullet proof

excuses and lies

singing, “give me another clip.”

Boot Camp

Eighteen,

hot summer in Kentucky

we marched the hills

like soldiers do

counting cadence

counting days

counting ways to kill

shouting ways to kill

eighteen is young

shaved head and black boots

spit shined like a mirror

Vietnam in front of us

high school prom behind us

kill little men in pajamas

screamed the big monster sergeant

never seen one before

I trembled

that hot summer day

been trembling ever since.