October Poem 15: Tattoo

The blackening pigment of his skin. The

Filigree he wears like a policeman’s

Blanket to cover his nakedness. To

Be taken like an abstract hieroglyph

Imbedded in the interior walls

Of the great pyramid. Painted in the

Old way. Chiseled in to mix blood and ash

As mortar to hold the panes of stained glass.

To shed light colored in the dust and sand

Of tradition. To guide him along to

The afterlife. His exterior all

Weather coating guaranteed for life

And then some. More than just illustrated

Parchment for you to judge him as a book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Superficial

August Poem 31: Do You Hear What I Say? Do You Notice?

The partial eclipse. A humid day in

August when your eyes sting with sweat as you

Pile more trash on the fire to find

The cutting edge. Do you know how bright and

Opaque in nature and work? Does your skin

Know how to find the answers? Does the

Ash fall down like snow melting into the

Sweat in your eyebrows? Does each drop mark you

In long streaks? Does the lily in the field

Fill your lungs? Burn your eyes? Does the bee know

The angry communist to be happy

When she has subjugated the world? Will

I notice? Does it matter? Do I care?

Doesn’t the bullfrog song lull you to sleep?

July Poem 23: The Chugging Machine

Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping

Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.

And even broadly the universe would

As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.

Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.

Jokes at work without getting fired for

Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it

Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly

Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds

Punctuated by work as numb plants that

Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,

Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.

But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,

Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.

July Poem 22: Dirty Dotted Chunks of Information

It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and

Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke

Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked

Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys

Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed

Out the end of bad taste. The color of

Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.

He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.

From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were

Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit

When they held planes as fat as forest fires.

Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch

For us. The bright color of fire ants tell

Dirty dotted chunks of information.