Food Water Clothing Shelter

Gustave Courbet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I'm a man always
in search of a daughter,
in two girlfriends and a mother,



food



clothing



water.



Shelter me
please
I have nowhere
to go,
I have nothing to give
and I really
don't know.



Since the day
my child was
lost in the street,
downtown on the concrete



that's where we meet.



Don't give me sunshine,
give me a warm bed,
give me some solitude
and a place to rest my head.



I've walked miles
and still see no land
I've worked for years
and open an empty hand



I'll give an embrace,
I'm braced for the fall.
You let me go
and I let go of it all.

Armageddon

By Albert Goodwin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

You run trenches

inside me

and I duck and I run

but nothing can hide me.

Can I find a way

around these spiked

wires and walls

and not be taken

by the rush of rapids

right down the waterfalls?

It's a lonely place

here with the bullies

that try to cast me in their mold

and swing me around by their pulleys.

I see you

in the dust and debris

and it's the same place

where you see me.

We watched cities

crumble to dust

and vultures chewing

our flesh like crust.

With the flesh hanging there

and my guts exposed,

I try to act like nothing happened

and stay composed.

When you do the right thing

and still lose, you chase

dream after dream

but it's still the same race.

You take the punch

and it makes you grin.

You try to fight back

but you just get punched again.

You're looking like mince meat

more black than blue

but you're used to it by now

you know what they do.

Now you invite it

for a chance to see guts

like you're on a rampage

and everyone thinks you're nuts.

They only see point B

they missed point A.

They think you started there

when you joined the fray.

You've got to go to the lab

and sort out the details.

You take the higher ground

and leave the field full of entrails.

I'm impaled

like a victim of Count Drac.

They nailed Jesus to a Cross

and said he came back.

Pilate washed his hands,

Jesus washed Peter's feet,

and maybe that's why

Jesus came back complete.

But if we come back

there will be hell to pay.

Hell hath no fury like a man

like me on payday.

Now I run the trenches

right straight through you,

blowing magic dust in the air

like some kind of Voo-Doo.

War

It's impossible

to get the mind

to stop playing tricks.

Flicks of Bics

are sicker

than 666.

To me,

it's just a lighter

and just a bunch of numbers,

but it's related to war,

and cats

driving over-sized Hummers.

One object

isn't different

from another,

and one war is the same

as the other,

it's all still letters and numbers.

The brain feeds

on cellular cancer,

scraping up change,

but still getting the same answer.

Silly rabbits

hop on your dashboard,

playing tricks for kids,

since the days of the Golden Horde.

You flash forward

to 2009.

Another number

with letters that don't read between the line.

It's all brain food,

clogging up your arteries.

Your brain cells have been fed

off death so heartily.

The letters and numbers

are a matrix of gray matter.

It sinks deep in every nerve

every time you see blood splatter.

Overseas or at home,

you make your home a big death rite,

every time you open your arms,

I know it's time to say Goodnight.

Every time I go home,

you're flashing lights in my face.

Every time I go out,

you're spraying my eyes with mace.

It's like a dangling carrot,

to distract and to lead,

full of Arsenic vitamins

so your eyes can't see.

Cloudy skies

full of dust and debris,

leave metallic water

for cyanide tea.

Brothers and sisters

in a sick game of twister,

on a mat of glass,

and blood for your blister.

Everyone's fed hate,

like pieces of sticky candy,

pasting your teeth,

tasting sweet and sandy.

It's a mish-mash so morbid

that the coroner passed it.

We're chewing clods of rock

all covered in plastic.

Jester

They had no idea

that I was Heyoka.

They're frantic with panic

and I'm just doing the Polka.

I'll make them see

their own hate and mistrust,

then make them laugh at the fact

and make the intestinal tract combust.

Sometimes I'm a monkey,

sometimes I'm a coyote.

After seeing me,

you'll feel like you've eaten all the Peyote.

The images must be broken

by the hands of the Jester.

Put them on the rack

like I'm Uncle Fester.

I'm dancing with girls

and drinking red wine.

Every time you draw the line,

I go ahead and cross the line.

Who else but me

could question your assumptions?

Teach you and tease you

with combinations and conjunctions.

I'll make you doubt

enough to question,

inquire with the fire

and rebellion of dissension.

I hop around

and expose your fear,

make you see it's all you,

I make it perfectly clear.

The Sacred Clown

will heal you, surprise you.

I'll hold up the mirror

and show you who you told lies to.

Everyman's Triptych

They want to roll up their sleeves
and get the job done.
I leave my sleeves down
and have a little fun.
And I still do
what needs to be done,
but I do it without getting scuff marks on my boots
or a bruise on my jawbone.
It's like some young buck
thinks he can manage me,
when I toss him like a bean bag
when he tries to damage me.
But I don't really think
it'll come to that.
They have no heart
because they don't even know where their heart is at:
It's getting eaten up
by an array of lies.
It's rotting in a warzone
amidst a swarm of flies.


So, they run in circles
doing the same thing,
caught in the cycle,
Karma sticks to them like static cling.
I could bob and weave
and do the rope a dope,
but they're not even close enough to hit me
or understand this trope.
I could swing and toss them
down the slope
like they did to me
just before they tossed me a rope.
Little did I know
the rope was a noose.
That's why these days
I just find ways to cut the rope loose.

II.

I've got tricks up my sleeves,
but my cuffs are too tight.
I've got grits in the pantry
but no snack at mid-night.
Though, at the hour of twelve
that's when shit hits the fan,
they try to talk me out of it,
but their mouths are full of marzipan.
A sweet trick will flick me
off like fleas.
No word, no gesture, no offer
will appease.
They still can't figure out
exactly what I'm doing
because their mouths are still full of tricks
and they can't stop chewing.

I'm still struggling
to get the rope loose.
I'm still getting choked
by the threads of the noose.
It's tearing me up
and cutting off my wind.
No second wind, in fact, no wind,
and there's an ambulance around the bend.

They take a snapshot
and hang it on the wall,
like a dangling brown body they cut loose
to watch it fall.
A safety harness crushed my ribs
and cut off my air,
like the noose tossed my way
with the pretense of care.
There's no way to save a man
that you've set up for demise,
thrown out with your lies
in a war zone amidst a swarm of flies.

III.

I saw the signs
and I saw you coming.
When that kind of thing happens,
my brain waves start humming.
Drumming war beats
like treats for the cannon.
I see no escape
so I start to think like Frantz Fanon.

I asked Mary Magdalene
if she'd go on this ride.
We both knew they'd shoot us down
like they did Bonnie and Clyde.
If we were Mary Magdala
and Christ Jesus,
we'd see what would happen
when we got in front of Pontius.
We all know Pontius Pilate
was as guilty as sin
and that's the same cycle of karma
that I said they were in.

You're coming again
and I snap the rope loose,
land on my feet
and return the bloody noose.
Maybe Jesus
should have knocked out his executioners,
knocked them out with the crucifix
to let them see what real retribution is.

I understand
turning the other cheek.
But when I turn that cheek,
I swing back hard for the low and the meek.
If crucifixion
brings about re-birth,
then I'm going to sprinkle these judges
with the Salt of the Earth.

The lion and the lamb
both see through the sham,
the scam, the lie, the reason why
a good man says God Damn.

Body slam false prophets,
I've got persecution complexities,
intricacies of miseries, mysteries
and scars on all my extremities.

You remember me now.
You can't figure it out or figure out how,
but you left me for dead
over at Dachau.

You bleached out my skin
and put me up there to sing.
You shot me on the balcony
after I called for freedom to ring.

You got me working
and control what I'm doing,
marzipan in your mouth
you just keep chewing.

Sweet treats and sweet lies,
you despise me, bury me,
treat me as a suspect
and approach me warily.

You're scared of me,
because you know what you've done.
You roll up your sleeves,
I leave mine down and have a little fun.

It's like some fool
still thinks he can manage me.
It's been done, by noose, cross, book, bomb, and gun.
It's too late to damage me.

What are you trying for?
More of your war?
It's been done before too,
and it won't work anymore.

Never did...

Never did...

Rigel and Vega

We're the Alpha
with no Omega.
We meet each other
between Rigel and Vega.

The sun shines
through the skin of my kin,
and she helps it shine
so that I shine again.

It's too dim
here with the colonists
where I'm trapped in a matrix,
falling into the abyss.

In the Fall I fell
right into her arms
into her eyes,
all wrapped around her charms.

They make me draw the line,
because they're divisive.
I come through the wall
because I'm incisive.

They watch me
but they need to watch themselves.
They perceive nothing
but the books on their shelves.

They've got a structure
and they've got rules,
they've got a clique
full of imperceptive fools.

I've cleared the cobwebs
that gathered in their reign.
I've seen sun shine light
through the weather vane.

Every little move
they make is violence.
Every move I make
is made in silence.

The rain they rain down
is bane on my crown.
Poison for the mind
in their poisonous town.

I could bob and weave,
and do the rope a dope,
but they're not even close enough to hit me
or understand this trope.

Finally, the finale like four score
and seven years ago,
like slavery ended
to take another form like Heaven's tears will flow.

Evaporated from being
exasperated,
clouds in their minds
cover the light they've conjugated.

I've deflated the conflagrated
and it went out of control,
spun into the sun
which drank it up like Merlot.

I'm watching it burn
standing there with Alpha and no Omega,
in between lights
of Rigel and Vega.

The Fight

It beats me, I'm battered

abused by these bullies,

with bestial patterns

I'm swung by their pulleys.

The pleasure they pull

out of pain that I'm feeling,

forever whenever they sever

my flow when I'm reeling.

Stifling, trifling, tricky

they treat me

with envy they beat me,

compete to defeat me.

Completely un-called for,

they're callous and cold,

I unfold and I blossom

and bust up the mold

to cope with these cowards

who use the defenseless,

they claim to be right

with self-righteous pretenses.

Un-nerved, I deserve

so much better than this,

they serve bottles of beer

that are perfect for piss.

The righteous are real,

these people are frauds

with acclaim from the crowd

crushing cranium clods.

I take care to prepare

plus I'm mentally stable,

I break up their pulley

and cut off the cable.

I'm free to swing back,

they don't count on that fact.

They contract, I expand.

They expand, I contract.

Lavender

Cracking like walnuts

between steel splints.

Sweat glints on my arms

as I strip the windows' tints.

They put dried weeds in a vase

and act like I'm out of place.

They serve food at the diner

and I ask for a taste.

Instead they give me the menu

stuck to my forehead with paste.

Stuck up and damn sure

fucked up.

If I lucked up and got sucked up their machine,

there'd be nothing left for me to get bucked up.

Their so-so explanations

and flimsy dip-shit promises

make me think of rusty nails

an amateur carpenter polishes.

My brain sparks lavender

a colorful challenge to the radio wave.

On land of debris,

my home is concave.

Slave after slave

in turn try to enslave me,

trying to deprive me

turning into ways to deprave me.

I maneuver like Ali

doing the rope a dope.

They back me up, I bob and weave,

and they think I can't cope.

Now, the brain weaves silk,

they got another thing coming.

I zap the brain wave

and make it stop humming.

They're certain it's a bluff,

they're certain they're tough.

But if they're so certain,

why do they keep trying to rough me up?

They are going to huff and puff,

but they're really just sheep,

trying to be wolves

but the bears are not the ones asleep.

Their fairy tale minds

turn into disastrous lives

full of violence and hate

and anything else that deprives.

It's the main reason

I spark lavender and weave silk.

I smooth it out

when there's no honey or milk.