Dinosaurs

Nothing crystal in Altoona’s

railroad shops, I tried

to grow a flower there

but the bud blossomed inward

for no one’s eyes

an implosion of beauty.

Just now in afterthought

do I see the petals

and from whence they came?

Locomotives came and went

black dinosaurs feeding

on strength only men could give.

I’ve often wondered

about man’s power,

the power of rivets and hot flesh

wrapped in greasy denim

where flowers dare to grow.

The caustic bites of railroaders

exploding in sweat and fumes

wounding comrades

but for just a moment you see

in retrospect no time was given

for healing balms,

just time for slinging spit and tales

of whores and pimps of yesteryear.

So how this flower grew

I’ll never know except

perhaps its roots ran deeper

than dust and acid smoke

down deep where dinosaurs

could never reach.

A silent part of me where maybe

not even I could reach.

I am a Starship

I have strolled around this town

sixty years now, nothing new.

No friends to count, just a few.

Doesn’t matter really, friends do

what friends do, sorry if it saddens you.

Sadness gripped me like a vice

as a child after my father’s death, never letting go.

Don’t get this wrong. I found love, adventure,

fatherhood, husbandry, education, and the likes.

Now I have aged, sickened. I now a scavagenger

for words, reasons, logic, philosophy. Deeper

diggings you know. My worries lean towards

Jung, Rogers, presidential follies, hate, love,

things which only made road blocks to youth.

Never went to war. Vietnam spat me out.

That’s okay with me. Didn’t need a Purple Heart,

my pink one is just fine. I have accepted

my final meal, bitter as it may be, but a spoonful

of living will help me fly above the stars.

Going down is okay. I am, as Pink Floyd

so aptly sang “I have become comfortably numb.”

Goodbye Daddy

Black night snow licking

at my toes,

daddy’s dead.

The trees bend in reverence

for his passing soul.

His corpse still haunts me

quiet and still like a Quaker’s prayer.

I watched six men labor at his coffin

tugging him to an empty mouth

of dirt and snow

I still cry today for my naiveté.

I did not know the man

my creator and chief.

I bow now in reverence of his dream

mine to keep like a flower

in an ancient bible.

Sunny Forever

It’s just another day, sunny chance of no sun.

My love tells me sun forever

but it’s gone, gone to the bottom of the sea.

Tomorrow will be another day, sunny chance of no sun.

My love tells me tomorrow’s going to be fine.

I’m leaving my sunglasses at home.

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.

Twenty Bullets

third finger from the right

Welcome to the hemisphere

twenty bullets will take your cell phone

black twisted licorice as far as the eye can see

triple K brothers and sisters sit where they want

fuck where they want, and shit where they want

God bless each and every one.

“If you aint white you aint right,” comes the thunderous

Alabamian crowd tramping on the holiest bridge in the world.

“Aint nothin’ a good AR Fifteen can’t fix in seconds flat.”

The K boys don’t care about an Alabama minute or a dead boy

only took twenty bullets to drop his cell phone.

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Twenty Bullets

Welcome to the hemisphere

twenty bullets will take your cell phone

black twisted licorice as far as the eye can see

triple K brothers and sisters sit where they want

fuck where they want, and shit where they want

God bless each and every one.

“If you aint white you aint right,” comes the thunderous

Alabamian crowd tramping on the holiest bridge in the world.

“Aint nothin’ a good AR Fifteen can’t fix in seconds flat.”

The K boys don’t care about an Alabama minute or a dead boy

only took twenty bullets to drop his cell phone.