whole body sketched
on the drawing board
of The Real,
the imaginary and symbolic orders,
I see a face in the naked glass,
skin tapping against
the pane of rationality,
eyes hollowing out
what can be explained.
A closer look reveals
the figure to be a mirror-me
sending peace and greetings
from What Is To Come.
Where every nation, race,
tribe and tongue professes
one almighty faith and lives
in peace and harmony.
Staring at the reflection
of his moonlight gaze,
I follow the slopes that edge
toward the apex of being,
where every idea,
concept and theoretical notion
faces its day in the court
of critical inquiry.
Moving as a break-less train,
encumbered by the shadowy
pillars of my own fatigue,
I reach for the window,
to touch that face and grasp
between past, present and future.
When with a grin and two-fingered
salute that splits the sphere of reason
to polar ends, the figure fades
into the realm of nothing
leaving What Remains
for the comforts
Green in a post-color world
Have we done it?
Are we still doin’ it?
Have we roasted the emerald dough
till it explodes?
Have we scraped the remains together
to be consumed like cracklin’?
Has it satisfied our material hunger
or do we yearn for more?
I once heard the news say of a Brazilian baron
who lost + 1 million a day
who still proclaims his fortune will not abate
even while green blood drains from his palms and veins.
I’ve seen the dollar string up citizens debt-ridden necks
choking them till their financial lives are half-dead;
hold hostage economies
with the threat of default and social unrest.
Such is life linked to the twisted key to prosperity.
For just like the proverbial fool and his money
we held it blindly too hard and too long
without realizing it had already gone.
Head rushing; head rowing on the Charles River
I’ve barely been to Roxbury, Matapan,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
I have not thought to stop like some
lost tourist to compare and contrast
features, challenges, triumphs,
hopes, dreams… lives.
The head rush of race and classism rushes
like the unlikely chance of a Charles River flood –
a flood that slugs lethargically downtown,
leaving the debris of history behind:
Civil rights marches, police confrontations,
bus and school rulings, blood spilt.
I see it, I live it all in my zoned out
head rush dreams.
It’s the Head of the Charles Regatta
and I’m an illegal participant,
head rowing against the tides of bad old days
I pray not to meet again.
I’ve barely been to Matapan, Roxbury,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
But for the sake of similar differences in this city
and nation’s story, I’d like to visit them all again.
In the doll house –
Alpha 151 –
the old man lifts
a balcony door frame
as his wife lends a needed
Four Orthodox Jews walk by:
Boy swaddled in navy suit,
head crowned by a kippah;
two women, heads wrapped
in black sheitels,
accompanied by a patriarch
hobbling stiffly on crutches,
tzitzit reaching from waist to knees.
Back at Alpha 151,
the old man twists a screw in place,
arms jerked up like a desert father
calling for validation
of his pious existence,
cloud-white hair and beard
threatening to flee his face.
He departs; his wife approaches,
wiping clean the open doors, perhaps
recalling family holidays
now faded into the periphery of age.
The old man returns,
the couple works,
as another wise relic
of bygone days
paces past –