The Beachheads at 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,
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.
Black dress dark rose and tears
death is dark, black like tar.
It is night without a moon
clouds on edge of exploding,
is there a lesson in staring
at the waxed corpse arms crossed?
Children have nightmares
grandpa’s corpse doesn’t move to soothe
his grandchild’s request to play,
dark suited men smile blankly
as a man in cloth repeats last week’s prayer.
Bless this man with his very own closet.
Bless his embalming and fine haircut
all dressed up to rot like his new neighbors.
Homecoming presents of carnations and queen’s lace
death imitates life without exchange of words
without the ohs and ahs once found in breathing.
Dandelions in a grass patch
waiting for summer breezes
to take them gently
without wings or a flutter.
Take them where you ask,
to the place they should be
like us they belong somewhere
never knowing never growing.
Until nature speaks
with a hot swooping tongue
carrying them to a toothless field
where no one knows their name.
Dried cake blended
with yesterday’s blood
Just a child’s eyes brown
staring up at me.
Tell me your story
the big hairy arm
shredding your dreams
beating your hopes
into a dark dusty hall.
Tell me of dirty needles
on kitchen tables
Rubber band daddy
make your children
in your image
trees won’t grow.
or city of angels.
All muted voices
mouths of babes
closed in caskets
rubber room mommy
Time will forget
scattered in needles
today’s new baby
cake on mouth
broken jawed child.
Spell My Life
Spell it out for me the quiet
in tombstone winds
sweat beads dribbling down
the squint of life
I am not who you think I am,
not the good humor man,
the loving guy with an erection
perpetually bent toward you.
Remember those long cold nights
white sheets creeping off our movements
nocturnal bluster beneath bare bones
breathing now beneath oak trees
your grave makes life gone in a wisp
spell it out for me the quiet
belief in something beyond the trees
beyond the final breath
spell it out in fiction tales of god
golden streets, golden rod and white lace
cover me now for I am the tombstone wind.
My mind the big screen
Of my past
I watched me
slumbering in my arms
red hair satin soft
I watched us laugh
driving fast on gravel roads
kissing and so much more
can I find that path
back to those dark summer nights?
Will I laugh again
winking with a certain smile
touching so precious
we could barely breathe
forever in our mirrors
Bumble Bee bullets sting through gray smoky air.
God’s dirt captures the noses of children.
Are we done yet, have we more to kill?
Nabil and Yara are laboring in a concrete corner,
still alive yet eyes blank
like a thin king’s heart, blank and callous.
Leaders of the world unite to kill more.
A fair haired president climbs aboard an F35,
bigger than his penis, smaller than his ego.
Bombs away America.
Death blood leaks from the slave’s house,
white irony in action.