Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home

Sweet Alice Pickler stirring a pot of lamb

waiting for her turban hating baby

to get home from Charlottesville,

baby Bubba asleep in a steel cage

next to the bedroom door,

little did she know that God sent her a bomb.

Bubba exploded and Alice dropped her spoon forever.

Donny’s drone slipped quietly into the southern sky.

For the Wretched

Too much to say not enough time
like never burn your mind
in an empty crack house stairway
don’t step on a crack, 
make your mother proud
even if pride is lost to her to you
gooseflesh and grandma’s grave
never matched never hatched
so much for folklore crack whores
and the time it takes to breathe,
to die without someone by your side
don’t do it, just don’t do it.

My American Dream

Long stemmed grass stuck between my teeth

shock of black hair blowing in a summer breeze

I lost count of puffy clouds slow motion journey

across my panoramic view of childhood.

 

I guess life awoke my sleeping innocence

eighteen and America counted on me

to kill protect uphold words written

before my naiveté before I could shoot a gun.

 

Dark spots growing across this wrinkled skin

tell a story repeated in so many volumes

so many stories lost on hills valleys jungles

headless soldiers burned like a Sunday barbecue.

 

Did Uncle Harry Grandpa Seth daddy Johnny

come marching home again hoorah hoorah

did anyone wave their bloody legless bodies

in the air and scream “I’m buying.”

 

America’s stories are written in blood

hot rivets and soured sweat let’s kill those reds

yellows blacks browns and baby eggs

let’s kill mothers collateral relevance is all.

 

Peace is reading a newspaper want ad

grandkids suckling in the parlor

growing gun hands and running feet

they too will learn too soon, too soon

 

So what’s your plan little child soldier

go to college learn you are useless learn

Thomas Jefferson loved black women

his genius mind is lost forever in ignorance.

 

Learn that God is only you inside a Santa suit

learn your parents were wrong about freeways

cause nothing is free especially not your way

money pays for the paper George and John wrote upon.

 

This is my America you don’t like, you shun

like dumpster diving rat lovers

cardboard mangers sitting on steam grates

back alleys backwashes backstabbing.

 

Grab your last pay check and scream hoorah

parade your colors of black and blue

life is not mine to keep or yours to take.

Salute this brass bell America shoot my head off hoorah.

Caged

We are birds

freedom measured

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.”

Four,

one will scream of freedom, one suicidal,

one staring through the bars

hoping his sister will soar through the cell’s gate.

Pigs of War

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

darling tint.

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.”

They forgot.

Trail of Tears

 

Everything I once knew to be true

now drowns in that great fog

we call our mind, that great gig

inside our head, the gray dog of thought.

I have found it’s never too late

to stand beneath a tree and give thanks

for dreams left behind by the holy Chippewas,

Dakotas, Chickasaws, and Shoshoni.

They were the founders of joy in setting suns,

rising moons, and dry tears of the lonely wolf.

I knelt before the Great Oak and began to cry.

My brave ancestors bloodied and bruised

began a long trek west urged on by the white man’s whip.

We buy candied apples and cotton candy to celebrate

the very day Running Moon and Gray Cloud took their last gulp of freedom.

Many died on the trail of tears.

We laugh and buy tickets for canoe trips.