doors open and close,
and hair is combed.
in silent hurry,
the day laid out,
life goes on, life goes on.
things left unsaid,
perhaps a note.
the brush in passing
through the tangled hallway.
the tv news, grey anvil tongue.
eyes squinted, life goes on.
while on a vacant corner,
in an empty house
neath a burned out bulb,
nothing gathers in shadows…
prayers fall on deaf ears.
an empty bed, and the shelves are bare,
nothing rhymes nothing,
life goes on!
too much traffic, and the law.stole some plastic;set up a tent down deepin the woods by the creek….up above the place wherethe cows cross… hauled mybelongings, a few clothes,books, an old rifle, a coffee pot,and a few utensils…a little food.built a small fire… thinking.what to do? steal a car,make a run for God knows where?or…
my skin is brown,my skin is red.i speak my own language,i have my own God,whose name is different…whose wisdom is similar!i love my wife,i love my children;when they are hungry,i do what it takes to feed them!i want to work,i dare to dream.i care about what happens,pray about what i cant change.i want to love…
burnt tenement stoops,crack dusted windows.bare breasted brown skinned girls,popping gum on skates.the ghosts of lost fathers,who swallowed heroin spoons,or bodies of the movement,long dead of hunger and want.no job, get a gun,locks are made to be broken…higher education,behind white tainted bars.when equality means,an equal chance to die,and living tastes like daylight,sucked through a straw!tis America,…
water from a rusted spicket.brass doorknobs,forbidden rooms,where spider webs coverforgotten books.and the chant of the ancientsrolls like thunder!strike the bell, mountains quiver!somewhere the gods of oldwalk deserted streets,while the shepherd kingsraise their flutes and play.and the old mad monkwalks into the hills,never to be seen,or heard again.black hooves, white snowthe taste of blood,the smell of…
that we walk…the blood that feels,and touches,the raw and the forbidden.it is of the bood,that we breathe, that we sweat,that we join,in moments of passion,great and small,in the simple and mundane.it is of the blood,that we drink, that we pray,that we wear…on lips parched and blistered,smeared over the doorway…the blood that takes back,that seizes the…
in a fine cloth….steps made of stone,laid one upon the other.shelter made of oak,cut and hauled,nailed together in the sun,able to stand the night.this window made of glass,allowing light and darkto intertwine….this old bed made of pine….the path to the doorwaylaid with pine needles….this old door always open….the light always on….this heart made by hand,waiting…
