The
Agitation Special Opus 111
I need the grace of the black man's sabbath,
gentle rain comin down on leakin tinroofs,
back in the holler of poverty, poker, and moonshine,
I need the salvation of the old ladies in the choir,
dressed up for sunday,
those that smell of homecoming and turpentine,
those that smile the forgiveness of the white man's scorn.
of the times I passed the hungry by, drunk on cheap wine
and percodan lace,
and even cheaper dreams,
I, the golden boy, given so many chances in the white man's world,
so many that wanted to help,
scores, legions really that gave me clothing, sheltered sex,
and fellowship that I threw back in their face,
yet, I thought I was different, with a country boy smile,
I could talk like the man from that radio station in Charlotte,
their rules did not bother me,
for I was special, the next great locomotive, out
of segregation special,
as I passed the homeless by,
on my way to Macy's diner,
one died of frostbite,
another from an overdose of vomit and milk,
little children, begged for coin,
and a place to sleep,
something for their asthma,
a starvation special in ghetto's place
of hell and northern segregation,
yet, I moved down the road quickly,
I had mountains to move and women to lay,
you see, I was special,
until a lady knocked on my door,
asking me for something to eat,
Hung over, feeling the wet brained guilt,
I thought I was still special,
whispering could she take a check or major credit
card?
She fell before me dead,
lice infestation,
she had done nothing wrong save her color,
and I alone could have saved,
had I not caught a ride
on America's agitation special.
Now I ask forgiveness from that church back up in the holler,
is there something I can do for repentance?
They smile at me, those women of the ages,
feeding me their last biscuit and forgiveness.
No words pass between us,
for they do not know the demon I've become,
I walk out to the parking lot,
and a hungry daughter approaches me now,
Mister, can you spare me
a biscuit and gravy?
I mumble an answer,
Can you take.........
©April, 1993
Cut
the old prophet down
Mother called wishing me well, ask if I might come over for Sunday morning
brunch,
she very much wanting to take me and her poodle on a ride out into the country
to see which one of the blue bloods had moved up the ladder,
All false saviors have mothers in pink and off the rack housecoats, who cross
their legs at dusk, drinking precisely at taps two cups of coffee,
their faces long for a time when the radio gave them good news, their sons,
cut the old prophet down from the spruce behind the flower garden, and
emptiness
crawls under a man's belly, like the first time a woman leaves you at Myrtle
Beach,
and all I could say to anyone that might dance with me,
I miss FDR, the smell of one room school houses, light night summer days
with missing man formations, son, son, my mother in the pink buttercup,
why have you forsaken me, dear son from the pre-bang universe
of baby boom ego?
I
hear Dublin is nice this time of year.
I, the traveling hobo, stoned on memories of the cross and bootleg,
lay me down to sleep,
humming bird hum,
little boy, stupid,
little boy hungry,
sing a song of sixpence, Charles Dickens,
carnival clowns,
high wire acts who use no nets,
I remember you in a love song unwritten,
in a sweet gone lullaby,
a kiss gentle upon my forehead,
Dublin was nice, with their green beer,
to help with the James Joyce,
and the bombings in Belfast harbor,
I remember you, before the killings, which took away
the softness of our words,
while we sat in that cold Carriage in Central Park,
your small hands upon the snowflake deaf girl,
Peter O'Toole never, sweet never, won the Oscar for Lawrence of Arabia,
nor did Richard Harris of Jimmy Webb fame,
Sugar freezes,
ice cube restlessness,
I still remember you,
that brief honeymoon,
guest of the Wichita cowboy,
a bed and breakfast where your new blue dress greeted me
in the morning,
before, during and after a nicotine resurrection,
as they bombed Belfast harbor,
I love you in a way James Joyce would say,
haunted loneliness, like honey dripping down the spine
of my back,
Wearing jeans,
you escaped into a past of high neurosis,
I would not send the telegram you asked
to James Joyce,
without money and counterfeit stardom,
the creek beds went dry,
I longed to find a way home,
the limitations of the human mind
cannot fathom the creation
of the lillies of the fields,
the songs of Solomon,
the wonders of eden,
the bedroom of women
at the well,
men beaten for coming to the rescue of men bleeding
in Dublin,
Perhaps again, we dance,
do not grieve me still,
for when men's hearts are changed,
all tombstone,
are temporal.
Carl
Sandburg and Wasted Syntax
In torn little pieces America speaks to me
like a dream wanting to convert itself to a nightmare.
A dirty little girl holding her Hoover Doll dies at the corner
of Free and Enterprise Streets,
near the Chicago meat market,
as basketball stars are paid $10,000 dollar a free throw,
he misses,
Jimmy Crack-Carter and I don't care!
Inside, where it is warm,
the popcorn pops,
the peanut cannot pee,
he can't get his goober out,
as this crowd leaves the Roman Coliseum,
they are too busy to notice the stiffness of this little girl,
things like this don't happen in America,
with a republican in the White House,
and Jesus in our tanks,
there must be something wrong with little Sally,
surely she sleeps,
children do die among the amber waves of grace,
mother of Sally, travels the hobo rails,
running from those wild dogs,
dancing with her overcoat gods,
who expose themselves to her and little Sally,
on the corner of Free and Enterprise,
the intersection of Land and Chance,
Carl Sandburg and syntax,
We don't pay basketball stars to try and save those little
Sally dears,
but it was never too much to ask medics,
long since gone,
requiem for these street urchens,
ardent glory for these men with the plan,
Never, never too much to ask,
save little Sally and her hobo mother,
could hit that last jump shot,
throwing death into sudden overtime,
Miss America?
©September, 1999
Little
boy, Sierra
Little boy, Sierra,
little boy, a running from monsters in the brier patch,
rebel boys at the segregation barn,
the sweet smell of youth,
where young girls of the college campus dress,
hold up to meet their favorite drunken boy friends at their favoring
drunken never-never land,
they remind me of miracles ignored, love pushed aside, harsh words spoken in
defense,
of overdue library books,
pink lampshades of long ago molestations,
asthmatic januaries,
new math with old fears,
second string quarterbacks who read underground Russian poets,
tonight I slow dance with beauty queen who only charge me a nickle a minute,
tic toc,
tic toc
tic
tock,
she leaves me, like an uninvited but welcomed stranger amongst the unknown
of freshmen mixers,
and Texas prison rodeos where the cypress myrtle of Gilead balm the
withering red roses, I gave her,
she leaves me, again,
sometimes without warning, in the stillness of a childhood memory,
when other men, much braver than I,
walked point blank into marriage,
hanging themselves,
when she left them, too,
Sierra,
you married a dentist,
I, promised you only a slow dance,
amongst the gospel of aging idealists,
you went to Richmond,
I never left enchantment,
looking for another beauty queen to slow dance with,
putting quarters in a spineless taping machine,
frantic sopranos of high jet fighters,
it is dark, except the light of a sad candle,
when I begged for one slow dance,
to last forever,
or until your slander
runs deep.
© March, 1996
Dark
Autumn
We, both sides of a man's brain,
painful, lustful, and quiet,
nestle down here, the trumpet of my lover's
voice,
I was young once,
virile,
tough,
and handsome,
the years finally came upon me like dark autumn,
finally,
there is no blood to donate
at Thanksgiving.
© January, 2003
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