Municipal, State, and Federal Revenue
Some organized crime
Sells weapons
Sells drugs
And calls it a hustle
Some organized crime
Sells your Civil Rights
Sells your Freedom
And calls it justice
P.S.
Excise tax on firearms
Excise tax on pharmaceuticals
Some organized crime
Sells weapons
Sells drugs
And calls it a hustle
Some organized crime
Sells your Civil Rights
Sells your Freedom
And calls it justice
P.S.
Excise tax on firearms
Excise tax on pharmaceuticals
two of my grandchildren
400 miles away
send me handwritten letters
cursive and print mixed
with drawings and one just-written song
which I pick out on the piano;
I smile and laugh—
such wonderful life.
What is Poem #5?
I don’t have a clue what to write about.
Is my isolation worth a poem?
How’s about my lack of good passion?
What is good passion?
This is, philosophically, a good question
worth a moments speculation.
The first good passion I thought of was lust.
But wait, isn’t lust one of those 7 heinous sins?
Wanting something so badly just because it feels good.
Many of my lust filled actions were good for me
until they were bad for me, but some were never bad,
some just tickled and tickled and tickled my fancy,
twerked and jerked my fanny and made me smile.
The good gone bad lusts taught me lessons;
don’t get drunk and go home with strangers, or friends,
or pass out behind dumpsters, don’t dress or act like you
mean yes, then say no, unless you want to piss off
someone and most importantly-don’t forget to use BC,
lord knows lust created kids are not always the best
way to plan for the future.
Now there’s a loaded poem-plan for the future-
And good passion is better than bad passion.
Trust me-my daughter is good passion at it’s finest.
To hell with writing a poem about my lack of it.
Don’t
fall
in
love
with
words
feelings
instincts
moments
views
girls
sex
you
with
out
know
-ing
if
it
is
love
or
not.
Open the page
Absorb ashes straight into eyes.
Refresh and repeat
every half hour
until numb
Maggie was always there. She came by bus
smooth caramel skin
shy laugh
gentle hands
smile that made you feel loved
What did I know of class division?
What did I know
of oppression
poverty
privilege
Rather, I sat in the deep windowsill, legs dangling
jabbering and listening, steam rising
between us as she ironed the sheets, starched the shirts
taught me about the Trinity
rules for living
sin and salvation
Once she stayed overnight, my parents gone. At bedtime:
What you doing with your arms outside
the covers honey? You tuck yourself in, they go in too,
adjusting my arms, pulling the blanket to my chin for the first time.
What did I know?
Before I recognized letters or numbers I had memorized
the names and ways of her children:
Madge Betty James Charles Robert Butch
Butch is a handful she would always say
and her no-good husband John, he was a handful too
I never wondered who took care of them all. Did not know
children grow up fast
when their mama’s gone morning to night
taking care of some other children
My little girls she called us
Instead, I asked again to hear
the numbers of the buses she rode
the transfers and wait times
the adventure from her home to ours
What did I know? Nothing.
Nothing of what it meant
to love and hug and feed another’s family
Monday through Friday
to catch her first bus home at 8 PM hungry with the hope:
Let them run on time
so I can embrace my own children
wrap them under bedcovers clear up to their chins
I edit my way into the poem,
sidling between lines, crab-wise,
snip here, smooth there, drag that
around the line break.
I’ve a large claw to fend off
unwelcome suggestions
and muscle reluctant stanzas
into place, and a small
claw to manage the finer
points of revision.
But alas! the full moon
pulls the spring tide high
up the foreshore and wipes
it smooth of my skittering.
John Muir died alone
Thinking of Alaska,
Gasping for air
In a hospital bed
Far from his beloved Sierra,
Far from the family ranch,
Far, far from where he had first known
Happiness,
God’s love,
The inadequacy of man.
We all do—
Die far from what we love—
Although we carry it with us
The way men used to carry pictures:
Their sweetheart,
Their children,
Their home.
We forget them
Until the day the wallet is emptied
And they fall to the floor,
Faded,
Creased,
Neglected but beautiful.
And so it has come to pass
you have in your house
all the ingredients for carrot “bacon”
without having
bought them
especially for this
having them instead “just laying around”
such idle luxury your cupboard too
benefiting from your privilege
and you “spend” an hour of the morning
watching humans take credit for the good work
of a pair of dogs—truffle “hunters”
the humans call themselves
the dogs tools
like metal detectors
alerting their human users
to what they’ve located
even doing the dirty work
of digging by themselves
“diamonds of the forest”
i always thought of sneaking out and falling asleep in the street but hated the thought of someone finding me splattered on concrete
so i made a coffin out of my bed and let my scrambled brain get fried in my head
