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Lullaby
The sky, a mottled blue-grey,
Sweeps and bends above me.
There are no stars to see here,
Except electric orange freeway light.
Better that than so much blinding white.
So may the whisperswish of cars
And insects’ click sing me to sleep
tonight.
And may the tumult and the shouting fade
away
With my own consciousness of All
that is not
lullaby.
Untitled
cruising through neon
green Almost,
Maybe on our breath and
Someday hidden under our
tongues,
we exchanged blue and
white for purple,
orange explanations
until Spring
made explanation
obsolete.
There is no reason for
this season
of delicate spiderwork
green,
pink yellow light and
ball and laughing clouds.
There is no reason not
to say the words out loud,
why Azalea should live
brighter than we,
shocking, ephemeral and
sweet,
but something stops me,
who knows each flower
wilts in time enough.
And we? We haven't even
that, my love.
Ascapuon
A wan shadow of the self
I know is running,
a blur of dark blue, the
color of the night sky rushing
Over the
Mediterranean,
dotted with stars, viewed with wonder;
Over the underground
city, the caves,
the streets, the old,
the poor, the sick,
the leather-skinned
beggar
holding up her sleeping
daughter
to the heavens and the
people.
The girl was younger
than I,
the mother's eyes wet
with Please.
Please.
Surely, this is not
America, though
America may someday be
this.
This is older than my
8-year-old imagination could conceive.
This is an ancient rock
formation in which we can each see ourselves unique.
This is a neverending
field of the forgotten dressed in green and crumbled white stone.
This country is a blur
of rock, ruin and flowers, flying past me as I run,
legs pumping, arms
outstretched,
As if the next step will
finally find no ground.
Before I can gain the
momentum to fly, I am stopped
by a small boy standing
there,
brown skin, dark eyes
shining joy,
black hair, white teeth
and homespun cotton,
pink tongue
incomprehensible, but
I know the meaning
of his smile and his
daisies.
I, too, was gathering
them all the while,
scooping them up in my
arms as I ran.
Hobo Booger Jim
There’s always carnival
rides, a beach with surf.
There’s aways a sunrise,
a sunset.
I shoulda been dead
three times
I’ve never had such a
nice place as this,
I got 28 pairs of socks
in my drawer.
I have 10 t-shirts.
I have cat toys on my
living room floor.
I got stuff, but
it’s just stuff.
I could cash out any
time,
buy me a backpack and a
sleeping bag.
All I wanna do is go on
one more ride,
and now I know where to
go.
The first time I got
picked up by a homosexual I was thirteen years old.
He had a sticker on his
windshield, a star,
like a badge.
I thought he was a cop
and I was holding,
but then he put his hand
on my knee and I just started swinging.
Cause I was scared.
I got some good hits in
before I got the wheel,
pulled the car over and
ran into the cornfield.
I shoulda been dead
three times.
I went down to
South Carolina with a
.44 and a photo album.
And she was sitting
there crying
and I was flipping
through the album when I thought,
if I kill her it’ll end
here, but if I leave her
she’ll be living with
this for the rest of her life.
And I left.
What would you rather
do, if you were homeless?
Would you rather live on
the street or ride the rails?
Ride the rails, right?
Cause when you’re riding
the rails you’re living,
But when you’re on the
streets you’re dying.
Put me in jail,
you think I never been
in jail before?
You ever been to a hobo
jungle?
In the grocery store,
kids’ll say,
“hey mommy, that man
doesn’t have an arm.”
Well no shit, you little
brat! I’m still alive.
When you get up
tomorrow, put your left hand in your back pocket.
I shoulda been dead
three times.
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