Mama said,
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds ya!”
All these years I’ve been nibbling away,
looking for love in all the wrong places and
asking for things that were mine all along.
Teeth imprints everywhere:
my own hands, heart, and mind.
Bloody days when the going gets tough,
resulting in even a soul full of
ravaged bite marks.
No one here to feed me, belly still full,
but my hands…nowhere to be found.
there’s a riot in my heart
and in the song that i sing.
your flag waves out calling,
saying, “let the freedom ring!”
feet stamp the earth in triumph
and dance our streets in ecstasy-
we call their names for you to hear
screaming terror in our victory.
scuttle back into your shadows-
damn the rainbow and the noise.
avert your eyes and grumble lows-
cry out while we rejoice.
we’ll wage this merry protest
dancing wilder until dawn
you quiet few, hush deeper now.
while we all battle on.
Aye, there’s the rub …
Snobs in clubs snub grubs from pubs, say
they’re slobs who hobnob in mobs
and often sub “rob” for “job.”
Grubs, gobsmacked by snubs and want of jobs,
feel robbed by nabobs
and lob gobs of cobs and “flub-dub, bubs!”
His hand curled around a dime,
challenging me to pry open
each finger one at a time.
His workman’s hands,
all bruised and rough,
were iron claws
I struggled against.
The dime, a fortune’s worth
of candy in the 1950s
when penny candy
was still just a penny.
But it was not the dime,
it was the time with him,
grasping his hand,
using all my strength
to please him.
– A Call, a Response? After four folktales
O Sleepers, where do we lie?
when voices split the night yet cannot breathe—
in beds of lily congress to get by?
The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus did hide
in caves when persecution forced a flee
(O Sleepers, where do we lie?)
and waking to a world without bullseye,
were given rest, a break to take a knee
in beds of reborn congress, they could sigh.
Twas Rip van Winkle slew a nagging wife
with drink and lazy times beneath a tree
(O Sleepers, how do we lie?)
and found his independence ratified
once woke and wizened, such to a degree
that beds of reformed congress grew him blithe.
Honi ha-Magel, healer, sage, complied
when local horticulturalists tucked seeds
(O Sleepers, why do we lie?)
not for themselves, but in the soil, and why?
that generations yet to come might see
fresh beds and brighter congress in their skies.
We cannot skip the seas while natures die
on land—like Urashima Taro’s passive lea—
O Sleepers, see the places where we lie!
in beds of lily congress on standby.
lights in the sky
smoke in the air
death on the ground
bullets
bombs
blood
take a knee
on the neck
breath
beg
die
from china
to home
death is every where
hordes
mask less
shattering glass
everywhere
take it all
beating heart
watch
wonder
worry
where do we go from here
hate
harm
haunt
all lives lost
all lives matter
black
white
brown
what happens next
that depends on you
where will you be tomorrow
Tony Sexton
6/Juneteenth/2020
It took almost no time at all to monetize the plague.
Even the mascot on a fireworks flyer
is wearing a mask. Ads for masks with
American flags, Black Lives Matter,
Blue Lives Matter, bare breasts, masks with Batman
villains and political parties, middle fingers
and Hello Kitty. Curbside fat-dripping sandwiches
and curbside towers of books and curbside
personal lubricants. Free hot dog delivery.
These times, they are so very uncertain,
so phlegm-filled, so bloody, but rest assured
that your brand-new Buick will be waiting for you,
your pizza will be thirty minutes or less, your
stimulus will be mostly on time just in time to pay
your mortgage and just the exact amount needed
as well who’d have guessed? Meanwhile,
cash stuffed down old white men’s pants, layoffs
led to profits who’d have guessed? Masks made
to look like you’re kissing Ben Franklin’s asshole,
breathe deep little ones, breathe deep
that warm governmental embrace, breathe deep
that musk from spooning Wall Street, breathe deep
that sweet pale freedom and never mind
the air raid sirens and that tickle in your throat.
I project jigsaw puzzle pieces out of my
muse the way a hen lays eggs, one by one.
Someone is putting the puzzle together.
A team of doctors examine me, say
they think that I’m a machine. I think
they’re right, according to those diagrams.
I don’t have the science background
to understand. I’m just a worker who’s
never met the owner of the factory.
I wanted you to fight for me
But you sent me into battle with no armor
Made me fight against my own blood
Turned me rabid
And when I had no more fight left
I still did not do enough to earn your praise
There was no war I could win to make me worthy of your love
I have since stopped fighting
No scar
No victory
Could make me enough
Now I’m enough for me
truck drivers’ windows
sport hairy arms bent, elbows
sun in windy rush.
