We are birds
by cage size and whims of our masters
don’t speak of god’s will.
He’s smoking a Cuban whistler
drawing hard on a factory made blunt
somewhere in the golden boardrooms of Wall Street emperors,
alpaca stuffed recliners drinking the blood of Christ.
We are birds
flying in circles
chasing dollars and breadcrumbs
chicklets with gawking beaks screaming,
“No room, no room at the inn.”
one will scream of freedom, one suicidal,
one staring through the bars
hoping his sister will soar through the cell’s gate.
I declared “I will fight forever for you.”
She smiled, hanged her head, deep socket eyes
moistened until fall breezes stilled them.
Life is bounteous and bursting
ripe with words from her god.
“I cannot cheat on my Husband.”
“He is not here, I said, “never will be.”
“Your faith is weak,” she declared.
“But I walked the Sea of Galilee and chose you.”
“I have not chosen thee, you are not the Son of God.
You are but Jesus, a man of no means and few words.
You will die in an auto wreck. I see it in your hands.
Holes in his shoes
the boy gathered his clothes.
No one saw him
no one ever did
he was invisible to a cruel city.
You see he wasn’t white
this decade’s favorite color,
more of a pig pink
seemed to be the in-crowd’s
Recruiter smiled at him
“this is the place for you
Robert Mason the Third.
After all there’s a war to fight
God knows them pig noses don’t care.”
Robert came home in a metal case,
a hero for all the pigs to see.
“Them boys gave it their all,
ultimate sacrifice we’ll never forget.”
Those horses I rode
I was young
younger than today
were made of clay
ran in circles
to the music of my world.
Stallions of my mind
with nostrils flaring
clutched in my memory
riding high plains
Thoroughbreds of thought
reaching for a gold ring
a child centrifuge
a smile for no mother
a wave for no father
the carousel goes round and round.
A man with a gun is a strong man
standing his ground.
Gonna whip the black man
gonna burn that cross
cause Jesus is happy to see
cracker clean heads.
God’s warriors gonna protect
come hell or high water.
Gonna kill them children jumpin rope
playin in streets where bullets
follow unexpected paths,
one dead maybe four more.
It’s all in the Bible you see
one black baby worth seven wolf skins.
The kings with thirty in a clip
go to the movie and kill what must be killed
that’s how the game is played.
Smokin’ guns are fun
stop and frisk the Muslim man
the black, the poor, the trash
we don’t need no more.
Expendable like milk cartons
on a planet spinning into doom
Arctic washing machines will cleanse
them dirty clothes once again.
LA will float to Siberia
and dirty cops will drown
cause Jesus loves us all.
The Cat’s Gone
Our cat left town on Tuesday.
She packed her furry bags
with one meow and a hooray
she left on a journey apparently one way.
I guess the cat food wasn’t up to snuff
her disappearance told us she’d had enough.
I hope she finds the home of her choosing,
tells her new employees of her need for using
humans for just a spell until the food gets dry
and her fur balls become an obstacle to her affection.
I Kissed A Man
I kissed my son as he laid suffering
tubes hissing like so many snakes
poised to take his life and breath away.
I stood helpless to help, impotent chief.
A grown man, my son, but a child to me
blonde blue eyed and sad. I cried.
What else could I do? Hero deadbeat dad,
the unclean carnival barker is guilty.
Yes, I kissed a man, a man built by me.
You can do that you know,
kiss your son, your daughter,
your Aunt Jessie and Uncle Conrad.
Will the cops put a bullet in your head
for such racy behavior? Will they?
Cuff and drag you into newspaper headlines?
I kissed a man.