Respect the dynamic.
Our empire can’t be erected
On the backs of other’s babies.
Again. Can it?
Oh, and speaking of erections
Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies
Every once or twice or three times
We’d let you have a say
About your plumbing or that place
Down there wherever the stork
Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.
Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.
Hard to be WHITE. The WHITER THE HARDER.
It’s almost, almost like trying
To not there at all.
A slack of stones
Metastasizes like boulders
Beneath your shoulder
Blades where angel’s
Wings sprout one silly
Cilia at a time.
Time. Can I borrow some?
I need a ride, too,
Don’t worry, just out to the
Quarry. How much junk
You got in your trunk?
It’s just that, lately,
I’ve been fearing
I’ll be gone till
Only the mountain remains.
Gravity’s a bitch
For aspiring seraphim
And cherubim alike
Though what passes for
Difference these days
Can’t be pried apart
By a feather
No matter how small
Or how silly.
You got that ride
I went down to the crossroads
To catch a cross-town bus.
There was swinging with great violence
In a benevolent cacophony.
But the empty pleading eyes
And the emptier pleading hands
Only seemed to say sadly
You have to sit through the whole presentation
In order to get a round-trip ticket.
But there’s coffee and doughnuts.
Except the coffee’s bad
And the doughnuts were gone by 9.
Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind
I remembered an ember can travel miles
Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,
Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?
I have fewer secrets
The older I get.
Fewer, but choicer, meatier, damning.
Though I may be confusing it all.
Age tends to do that.
We acquiesce to Age like a bully.
Meekly, wanting to sleep in on a school day
For fear of running into him on the playground
By the swings or teeter-totter yet
Off to school we go daily building lives
Best we can If we’re that fortunate.
Still Life kicks our ass when it wants.
People can change but most don’t.
They try to stay young by keeping secrets
That can’t wait be told anyway
And simply disappear with their telling.
What frightens you, Norma?
What high holy terror
Can drop like a veil
And curl your toes?
Is it Love?
Is it the sunburned grandchildren
Of your sunburned grandchildren
Roasting along the equator
Where we’ll all move
To peek across the belt
Holding the world’s guts in
To see how the other half lives?
Norma, I am troubled.
I want to mock and deride you
But know it isn’t right.
That’s between you and your god.
Who called by the way
To say he’s stuck in traffic.
Seems Apollo’s chariot got a flat.
This high noon may last awhile.