I turn to TV, From the prospering tragedies in the papers, The place is filled with hot deals and cold obituaries. But on air, There’s the new world order cooking under our noses, It is such a beautiful thing, The accuracy of it brings tears. The hydra-headed America studies hard to bow before a Machiavellian … Continue reading New World Order
Gods by the brush strokes, Gods on the factory wall, Gods on a t-shirt, Colorful august fixations, Mohammad, Jesus, Yahweh, Chi, Sól Buddha, Krishna, Shiva, Tao, Vino, Moolah, Jah, Shango Satan, Pudenda, Helios, Lucifer. One thing is promised, We must bow before one or more or half a god. Unlike the writing of this dawn nonsense, … Continue reading Gods by the Brush Strokes
Even I know the silent corrupt joy of a deserted town with clinking adobe brick alleys, And silent yellow lamps, And as this is no movie, there are no London-type fogs telling of a grave lurking evil. None of that flagrant nonsense, you see. This town is its most miraculous when it is devoid the … Continue reading Donkey Punch
When you first see him, The large man in front of a focused crowd, With perfect teeth, Fists of limestone, And suspenders that stay put, You instantly think, He will never be the type to die for anything powerful, By anything powerful, And the steady noise in his corridors, And the rattle of silverware in … Continue reading There is Melody in Hell After All
I met a poet today, You can tell it was a party. Sleek, Goodly, Handsome, On fire, She smelled of fog and flowers, Her first line, a dead giveaway, Something about the communistas and the Sicilian Syndicate, Too many feral sons never taken to a punch from their old man, She mined a ricochet bullet … Continue reading Morgue Attendant
Voodoo Child is playing on the radio, This Benjamin Sainte-Clementine lad cries out in broken notes, A Jimmy Hendrix cover done some final justice, Quick violent tunes, By a soulful dark man from Edmonton. Strange verses from a wicked street in his memory. Stick fingers plunking out deep dark secrets from piano keys, Bare black … Continue reading Voodoo Child
"The boat spews its affliction, Many of them in colorful buoys, Of Kobane Syrian women in damp burqas, Of Olden women clutching prayer beads, And Pakistani men with little pride, And little girls with pink backpacks uprooted from sleep, Another boy, recently broken, is lifeless, purple-lipped."