Haiku 1
Skin color does not
define my rank in heaven
so why does it here?
after James Wright
Before me these days, carnivorous air, torn bandanna masks, infectious journalists pale as boiled beef, noxious tangerines, ominous bow ties, children asking to sleep in my bed so no one will come through their window and steal them away, bloody nail marks on my cheeks, deep ulcers in my stomach. Behind me, always behind me, a door like the mouth of a cave in the air, an entrance to a tunnel, a tunnel to an infinite ocean of cool saltwater, an ocean between me and an impossible tower circled by mother animals minding their own business yet waiting to guide me safely onto the land, a tower holding at its summit a jewel that bursts in infinite directions with a light that leads and heals and holds every single color of light within itself and radiates like a star on the head of a nail and is not any tan man in robes and sandals and is not a fat detached bald man smiling ignorantly and is not a one-eyed Aryan pirate king or a man with the head of a jackal and is not an empty void but is in fact a living pulsing thing that takes the shape of everything and anything and is all things and no things and runs through all veins and when I say all veins I mean every single vein of black man white man Inuit Chinese Aboriginal lion Kodiak bear Appalachian coal seam Oklahoman oil vein rain forest desert troughs and python Pomeranian pelican porpoise and every single purpose is a single purpose which is to return here, to breathe deep this burning light, absorb and be absorbed, remember just how goddamn singular this all is, how I may be a cell in the big toe and my brother next door may be a cell in the eyebrow but we’re all one body sick or thriving dying or alive we are all one warm glow of light able to hold hands and spread as far as we can imagine, but only as far as we can reach together.
To be looted to the tune of trillions,
then expected to stand by
until derivatives might trickle
and for three months survive
on twelve hundred, many still
have yet to see, it is no
conspiracy to read these furi
ous trump tweets as clear allusions
to that speech in Miami, 1967,
by the chief of police,
wherein he called on murder
of the rightfully disgruntled
for the misdemeanors they might
perpetrate to exorcise those chains
of hate and claim for once
their equal right to walk
on lifelong neighborhood streets
without suffering brutality
sanctioned by the state.
And what if in rage they take
ten million televisions? It would
pale in comparison to the pillage
that took place when our
congress signed to law their
funds for covid economic aid.
Of course our furorous trump
will claim his comments simply
taken out of context, no intended
dog whistles here to see, just
a dose of contradictions daily
to stoke the chaos and exempt
himself of all responsibility.
Indeed, as he has said on screen,
he cannot, legitimately, be accused
of having any clue about our history.
I try to accommodate,
learn to walk
differently,
sashay across the floor
swinging hips, arms,
like the Creole singer
I saw once
slugging whiskey
as she danced down
the jazz-filled streets
before the flood.
Last summer in Tennessee
Sidney offered her binoculars the better to
see an indigo bunting perched on a power line.
This spring in Kentucky a tufted titmouse
scolds me as I walk under an ancient ash.
She wants to nest in a tree hole.
Mother’s often take responsibility for who their children turn into,
but I will not blame my Mother.
It appears we have lost the battle,
the battle of humanity.
We have lost the battle
of raising some of our children
to be something other than rabid, wild animals.
We have lost the battle
to manage our politics/ politicians,
our governments-this country.
I am the problem because:
I merely vote, try to live in a humane way,
I do not lay my comforts on the line,
I do not risk my possessions to protest,
I do not or test my sanity
by running for political positions,
nor do I take time to educate myself to manage
a city-wide police force, a state, a country,
I do not volunteer my not-so-well-used,
precious time, to help anyone,
except when convenient
and comfortable for me.
I avoid abuse, pain, love, and humans.
I ask forgiveness.
I apologize for my lack of empathy.
I accept that I am less than who I could be.
I am proud, but not proud of what I avoid.
If you want to help, when you see me,
don’t ask how I am, ask instead,
what I have done today to make
this planet a better place.
Hold me to a higher standard
than what I hold myself to.
Make me uncomfortable.
won’t help.
Not when a knee pressed into
the neck of a black man
for nine minutes
while he begs for breath
calls out to his mother
yet is still choked
until his heart stops
is not considered wrong
by a veteran cop
and his silent back-up.
Morality is not a tactic.
It can assert itself about “beauty,”
things like hikes, gardens:
white roses climb the ladder
in full sun.
It can agonize about “hardship:”
The oil stain has soaked
into the concrete and won’t
pressure wash away.
It can hide from the candid: Police murdered Breonna Taylor in her sleep.
It can speak metaphorically
all it wants:
Would you look at this hemlock? It grows
and grows in my own
backyard;
a territorial common loon just stabbed
a bald eagle right
through the heart.
Nero went to church to pose
standing with inverted bible
no prayer given
Roosevelt went to church to pray
on his knees
for the hungry hordes
our citizens scream to be heard
empathy and love
my prayer
our excrements are all the same colors
smeared on the streets
as we call for our mothers
