On Our Way Home

Walking toward God’s redemption, passing life’s tragedies
head held high , not looking at the crack in the neighborhood. Will not let
surroundings make me part of its décor. We want more than shell shocked
condo on the river. We are walking toward the light, toward the future, toward a
better life with dignity on top. May cost extra, we are willing to pay. Eyes on the
prize, brass ring in reach. Come on sis we can grab it,
on our way home!

This Harsh Farm Land

Rolls of hay, rolling thunder of farm machinations bullying the family farm,tossed to the side like discarded Kleenex. Farmer needs his land to feed his pocket, to feed his family, his stock and his tractor so he can harvest some dignity for himself, much less his familial unit. Isn’t that the trend on Wall Street? Making humanity a number instead of a

Life.

Cows eat grass then pushed with a forklift into their eternal heaven, while being treated like hell. Grandma said, “Be nice to the animals, treat them with kindness.” Too bad the Corporate farmhands didn’t listen to their grandmamas. Maybe they would have realized even cows deserve

Liberty.

Rolling green hills and valleys God made. But satan said to hell with God, this is my land now. “We are going with progress over agri-kindness’ Fuck the future. We want ours now.” You’d think the devil said that, but no…it is We the People of the United States of America…Land of the “I” and Home of the FEE. I guess no one’s interested in the

Pursuit of Happiness.

Woods

Feeling childlike, lost in the
woods. Needing to act like
a man to find my way
out. Hard decisions need to be made
like in the poems of Frost and Coleridge. Nature
can be romantic this time of day, but treacherous at night. Monsters
awaken to soft tippy toes then
strike subtle weakness'. Eating berries of poison for survival
but no one showed you the difference, s0 you
may not be here for the second coming of the valley of the death
march. Maybe we can watch from the cheap
seats. Does anyone really win at this game
called LIFE or is it all
just game inside game inside
psychobabblification
made to make us think
the woods aren't a safe
place to crash. Seems it would be
because of the dead
leaves.

Late Night in America

No reason to get up. Stay up as
late as I want. No job. No school. No
hope. I used to love the cock’s crow. Signified
a new day dawning. Now sleep til three. Hate the setting sun. Nighttime means
re-runs of a life’s better days. Had job. Had life. Had meaning. Had
hopes upward mobility.

The Gravel Road

Sharp rocks hurt like Hell, but
I keep walking to make my way home.
Not to the trailer park. Trailers
don't hold up too well in violent storms.
I want the brick house that will say "Heyyyy,
that is not a storm, it's just a bad dream, the one you always
feel will come get you." She says it louder than the tornado's train track
which run down the middle of this gravel road. The
one that has the sharp rocks. That hurt like
HELL!

...LOVE

She lives
therefore she is
...LOVE.

Lecture by Poet Activist Legendary Amiri Baraka / LeRoi Jones

Lecture on politics in the poetic.

http://www.archive.org/details/naropa_amiri_baraka_lecture_on

Arrival / Departure

Arrival:
First kiss in decades. This one is more
important than all the ones before. This kiss
will say “Yayyyy” or Nay to the future of loves
commitment. Nervous joy and silent yearning over dinner
ends when we kiss the second, third, and so on. The week
goes by faster than a speeding bullet to my racing heart realizing
you are not ending the visit, but beginning a future…a future with possibilities
of forever.

Departure:
Jet plane gone in to the wild blue
Yonder. You are in the tail section waving
To a new me, one that cries at curbside departures and laughs
at you snorting while eating a nasty ass chicken wing. Giddy
giggling like 17 year old kids experiencing our first time
knowing it will not be the last. Thank you for the feelings
of love on a Christmas morning knowing the only gift I need to see
under the tree is you.

Futures Days and Nights

Long days and longer nights are no longer.
My days are filled with lush thoughts of
a future held together with roses, lilies, and
blue and white note cards that say, "Baby Thanks for being you"
My life was forever changed with one midnight, "Heyyyy"
Now I drift off to dream of beauty and wonderment and great stories
yet to come of days filled with laughter and joy and approachability.
Only you baby, can make "approachability" as saucy as the woman who said it.
Mine is forever and yours is forever with me. I love you past,
present, and future.

Come to Jesus

Knock at my front door,
I am afraid it's the boogeyman
he is wearing a shroud of humble,
honest caring and a beard of The Gospel truths.
Suffering isn't a pleasurable invitation, but vibrant
like the colors of a horribly nostalgic slasher film. One
that reminds of the past, but warns of better days. He
asks if I want to come along. If it's too good to be truth
it may very well be or it could be the answer to many
long prayers on longer nights from noon til dawn blessings of foot deep
tears and crying out for redemption. Is the argument with myself or with
that asshole that used to live in my mirror or from when I was a child. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to the Lord my soul to keep. Was it Him or me responsible for the survival. The jury is still out. Come back next week, I may have an answer for ya!

Farm Aide

Farm
House
About
Harm.
Strong-arm
Shout
Loud.
Police
Come.
Solace
Dumb.
No
Growth.

Children of the Night

Children of the Night
Taken, beaten to a pulp
Their Innocence Lost

Halo's Warmth

Shine in circles
around beauty that
already exists. Circular
light and auras brighten every
moment that passes like icebergs
that melt in cardiac warming. Only
the thaw is around the heart
and the layers of frost of
an ice age needed to walk
through fire and not burn my soul.

Shine the bright halo. It's OK now to melt away the
SINicism, the fear, the darkness that has protected
me. My muse says no one will harm me
ever
again.

Amends

(This is my first attempt at a real Minimalist Sonnet. This is an Italian form sonnet.)

Years

longing,

wronging.

Beers,

tears

trying

prying

spears.

Paid

Debts.

Made.

Wept!

Living,

Giving.

Funny Lady

"Splain" you say, I do.
Lucy you cracking me up. You giggle
then snort, the perfect snort. The one I wait to hear
when you laugh hysterically and then...here it comes......:snort:
I said all the funny things just to hear that precious sound
that lets me know you think I am funnier than all
the others have been. Another
way you tell me you love me. Then you tell a story and you make me
belly laugh outloud till I am crying and as the tears
fall I realize I have fallen so in love with the funniest lady, who
will never make
this clown cry again.

Tent City

Darkness walking
flames dance in iron
cylinders rising to the Gods
of the nocturnal. Gatherers hands raised
while mothers cry out in pain:
one shot, two hit, three hooked,
six raped, not just by the vile viper
but the system that protects
such apocalyptic ferals. Batman won't show
his mask in this part of Gotham.
Small tents house the lucky
while the harsh fight over the cardboard
cot. Cement pillows don't soften the blow the same
as a razor can. "No options" become real choices
when the chips are south of nothing. Hunger
steals, dope lies asleep until it screams out your
monogram. Food given then traded like an elementary school
lunch period. Except this time its adult trinkets that are traded.
Money, sex, character, dignity, integrity half price
after midnight. Seventy five percent off after 2 am. Fix gotta happen
like when a water pipe bursts in a house. They wouldn't know.
Ain't no water pipes in a tent. No neon campground. No KOA.
This is life. This is death.....next on the Channel Five news.

My Peace (Love Haiku)

You, my peace of mind.
My vision of happiness.
I pray I am yours.

Sold Down the River of Dreams

River city, no showboats
anymore. All that's left is a long
bank of empty hopes and
loud screams. Industry left on the last
train to Mexico and the Mexican people
did not get the memo. No more work
for the hometown riverboat captain, much
less the first mate.

The Grand Hotel is now a Wal-Mart with an
$8 per hour heartburn from the 99 cent lunch
they are forced to cook and then pay to eat. Sharp
dressed manager makes all the dough while the help
cooks the bread they don't make, but the Japanese do
from all the new techno I-terrific down-loadable prefab
four. McCartney even sold Lennon out, who had NO say in
the matter. Talk about a Revolution.

Giddy

Clouds forming
around my head
like a halo of grand
adjectives to define
love. Amorous, beloved,
cherish, devotion, enchanted.
But she defies definition. She is greater
than the sum of all portions involved. She
takes me to a palace I never thought I could
visit. She takes me up steps I never dreamed I
could walk. She takes away my breath, my sorrow,
my lonely. We begin again with belief that every song
can ring true, every behavior can be changed and giddy
Is the right adjective to talk about love the beginning. My
giddy is truth and my past is all a lie. My life is very close to right.

God's Gift to Me

Gift
bestowed
not borrowed
but given freely
from Grace
her eyes shine
like the rays of
a new midnight sun
her smile shimmers
its way to me for that
first taste of love from her
sass, waiting to hear the words
said to my eyes and not my ears
Love is a gift of action from one love to
another.

It's Friday!

Gifts

She stands in the corner.
I stand in disbelief. I cannot believe
she loves me. I have taken so much
from the world. I have given most of it back,
yet God still bestows gifts. He has returned my honor,
My Integrity, My Character and My courage. He has also returned
her to me. A gift I never thought I would see again, Thank you for
the party and all the gifts given. God Bless my love!

Help with Hands

Hands folded at Sunday dinner. Southern
pride shown through prayer. Cussin’
your cousin under deep breaths. What
is that loser doing here? He belongs to Jesus.
Everyone needs a little help. Embarrassed by
your words, he leaves and fixes
your tire
as he walks
home.

Train, Train

Train leaves the station. Crazy cravings keep me
inside “The Know”. Like “The Know” is a good place to be. Down in
The Valley
next to Motel Hell. There she is
the guttersnipe,
smokin’ the pipe.
Man is she ripe,
With the stench of not giving
A FUCK!
Laundromat Libido Bathroom
Motel – rent by the slot. Twenty 5 cents for 15 minutes
plus a twenty for her troubles. All that to think…
5
4
3
2
1

NOW GIVE ME MORE or I
will slice Your Ass UP!
Blade out.
Flesh ripped. For
what? A
blood-stained craving
with a side of tears?

Cleansed

You
are

the
kindest

deluge
of

rain.
Washing

clean
like

redemption
of

the
repentant.

Re-wind / Fast-forward

Re-wind! 30 years before there was a question
of spiritual rights in our trailer park, everyone was
a Baptist. Bibles flew like buzzards
spotting up for the dead in the tilled fields. Poems were not
an option in The Church of Civil Wars. Mom and dad danced
with Disco’s Depression as I was the slave child
whipped with screams of ancient arguments and grand speeches
made.

Fast-forward! Present day
therapy questions my
aversion to God’s
glitter dreams. Normal childhood, “yeah
Doc, What the fuck ever! Daffy Duck was a
bitch and can’t play for the NBA either.” No more basketball,
no more color, everything white as the blackened snow-covered
earth.

Battle of the Bands

(Parodist Haiku)

Who is the greatest?
The Beatles or Rolling Stones?
Hey Dude, Let It Bleed!

Light

Light
house
being
built,Red
brick by

brick. Waiting

for White light
shining on mid
night Blue back
ground, east to west
illuminating my way home.

Why is Johnny Not Marching Home?

Why is Johnny Not Marching Home?

I

LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT
Political prostitution pimped out Johnny.
making decisions out of grimy
greed for self-centered standoff between
Cadillac morals and his Pinto ideals.
Free as the oil being pumped into Johnny.
Prices being raised during
Santa’s seasonal Hooking for Dollars. We have sold
The American Scheme! Owned now by the Chinese for 3.4%.

II

Johnny won’t come home to Bud
Light and billiards with his buddies. He
won’t know a hero’s welcome. No ticker-tape. Except for paper
work he would sign saying the government isn’t responsible for his
pages of rages he wrote in his journal that Dr. Take a Pill
would tell him to keep swallowing so he wouldn’t suffer
from Pre Duress Syndrome.

III

Johnny was a sniper. Face in the sand, eye on prize.
Ready to kill: who they say, when they say, until Johnny says,
“Pistol whip me for I am your whore, I
believed you when you said we were defenders of the weak.
I am weaker than my enemy and the sanddollar.” Johnny waits…

LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT,
L E F T.

BANG!

Drive-thru Redemption

No neon name, yet you
love, unconditional.
Asking many things. I do
Try to say thanks, most of the time.
Prayer courtesy. This
time I ask something
out of character for me.

How can I help?

I wish to look through your
glasses, they see courageous colors
after harsh storms. Religious
glasses I tried; too dark, too tight.
They fit some ok. I want
more than three wishes on the dollar menu.
Humanity’s hope for the abused
Aphrodite. Faith in more than the Church of
Frivolity and Peace in the Warheads. To help the lonely
meet and fall in…whatever gets them through the
night.

How can I help the oppressed
rise above their munitions.
A smile in their direction or free fries with their order.
Courteous cash back? “Come back real soon!”

May I take your order please?

Project

Once there was a project. Experimental.
Put all people with low hopes in tiny
turfs. Loathsome nights spent hearing sirens
cries, more crack in the family pavement. Father
tries to care for wife, children but fleas and rats force
him out before food stamps get lacerated by government
grazing. Children turned away from the buffet of the better
life. The cash cow can’t come home. She is busy being milked
out of her last dollar. Vittles not free,
except on TV, and then only dress
rehearsal for the electric
fence sell at Wal-Mart.

Irony

World of iron, gray skies
Indoors. Iron Icicles fall in front of your
face. Stone, brick, and steel toed memories
seared, not from want but necessity. Cigarettes
and booty buy you solitude. Porn acted out in private
igloos. Shields are there but don’t protect
the innocent and the guilty. They have the key to better freedom. Administrative
thrones for little men trying to be more
than kings, end up jesters in the court of humiliation.
A long way from
Camelot.

Transference

Phone rings, it is you
again, my secret
path to myself.
Whispers of indecent longing
waiting to pounce like a puma on my vocal
chords. You wait until you hear the first slight
breath before you gasp in flow for the first time. You
make me wait to hear you click the receiver
with enamel claws before passion prevails over
vanity. My voice sends you past
your future into a stratus known as ecstasy
plus one. Your cries muffle
my screams both praying that God
will understand why his name is mentioned
bu tnot needed. We reach out and touch only the heaven we have
created and wave our hands through lust, love, low lying
clouds of bittersweet. Knowing touch is only
the illusion we create to walk this tightrope
through the cloudbursts causing it to rain from
the same sky
that
rains on you
that
rains on me…

2500 miles away!

New Fish

Standing in the middle of the Ohio River. Fish
reached the end of my line.
Elated. First fish, first trip. Six years
old. Daddy said, “Boy,
God gave you that fish.” Daddy, you mean
God put the hook in his lip and made it hard
for him to breath . “No son, I don’t
mean it that way.” Pappaw was standing and grinning. He
must have told this lie before. Daddy
why did God hurt the fish for me. Does God
like me and not like the fish. “No son God likes all things the same.”
I started to cry. Daddy let the fish go.
I hope the judge likes me as much as God and Daddy liked
that fish.

Twister

Dark twists engulf
like a self loathing

tornado sweeping
away all hope like a trailer

park memory. There is one
cellar I can run to if I

hear the siren. But if she calls out too late I
have to hold on to the thread. Hanging. Pleading it to pass.

Winds of a crypt long closed, reopened
to unleash the harsher tempest, seducing

me to fly , but holding the
thread, hanging on by one claw.

OZZO

Nighttime is the hardest place
to soften these thoughts of dark
prisons taking new dominion of my
being to leave me pissing in the fan of my
beliefs-New day dawn shadows of normalcy
following me in the wrong
direction to OZ or ZO. Id
is my master of illusive whispers, promises, unfulfilled
with crown molding.

Dolling out dinero for diapers
to help get the job well-done with a slight chance of rare. Holy
Jesus, save me from this crime and I won’t do it again, until the next
time you aren’t looking. Please put a stop sign in my
brain so I will get off this pinwheel to
Hell.

Deliverance

(Deliverance Theme playing)

Never wanted to be associated with it.
Yet it’s all I ever pray for. I track it like squeeeeaaaals
off in the woods. Pulls both ways like a redneck finger trap.

(Deliverance Theme continued)

Hillbilly prophets try to pray me back home. Flights to the south,
deep fried. They want to celebrate me home, but all they do is burn me at the
grill.

(Deliverance Theme continued)

Ridicule plays second base. Ump screams “YOURRR’RRRE OUT “. “Hey, I
thought I was safe here”. Automatic out
of place.

(Deliverance theme)

Uncle’s trailer! “Damn boy you write a mean poem, but you should get into a real trade like
right wing heating and air or join the Union of the Klan, they got a fine string of
benefits.”

(Deliverance theme concludes)

Flyaway. Thinking backwoods. Driving home. Hmmm, never considered L.A.
a safe haven.

Defeated

Ran to french
kiss the future. Breath was too bad.
Ran back to old lang syne. He smiled saying,
“It always looks darkest right before
it is.” Truth isn’t pretty
in hooker clothing, looks worse in
drag. I want to stand and scream, but I
won’t stick
around and hear them chant
“Go Green, Go Green”, the only ones
heard are the red teabaggers! No winning
this game, I can’t fight
alone anymore. I think I will lay
down with everyone else and wait
for the bus.

Naptime at the Free Will Baptist Church

No Hallelujah for the absurd dine and dash.
Religious molestation: Godly spiders moving about the world-

wide web of their deceit. The church of sinful greatest hits; Thou shalt
not steal: tithe runs to Colombia to double your pesos in a dope deal gone

blasphemoso. Call Dog the Bounty Hunter to prey for us and track
the tithe, only to get arrested for indecent haircuts in a public

place. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors daughter! But Preacher
spins a new tail to chase. Momma and Daddy thinks she’s being

sanctified, I suppose she will see the light. I reckon
she’ll learn the meaning of The Bible Belt.

Blackalicious Dope Disciple

Radiance becomes unbearable, light bouncing off the moon.

No light please, I am dark for a reason, black clothes only: pantsshoesshirt.

Sunglasses in daylight. “I want to look like, be like; Jimm Leary S. Thompson”.

Drunken role models for college students. “But Professor, acid enlightens me, makes

me more creative” (walloozing). Later,life becomes unbearable,

tiny pinhole of

joy.

Fetish

Chaos in red stilettos. White lines up
the back of her stockings, black skirt made of
illusion sashays past. Insanity’s sinful scent
lingers. Dilemma: walk toward wisdom or
allow her to lull me to her luxury,
just one more time...

Her eyes pull me forward, face
in her sweat. Virtue lost in her corruption. She
rips off my principles, unbuckles my
integrity, pulls down my character. She drops
to her knees as though she is the slave that beholds
my shame.

Her hellish eyes ignite.
Rage twists out my very
essence. She spanks my addiction until she swallows
my last drop of degradation. She saunters away
as the master of my moil.

Pulp Truth

Impregnates the brain with
stupidity, birthing cerebral flatulence
'round the globe. (ha!) Reality

whore, male / female, doesn’t
matter as long as the
adsecutives sell more smelly

beans to fill the crock and raise
the ratings instead of the bar.

(Be back after this important massage)

Give the rose to the one you truly love,
yourself. Give the money to Big
Brother and Big Sisters on the Tour Bus to aging,

washed up rock star’s viagra fund. One more
Hilton stripper pole, sex
video on how to tighten your ignorance

for the paparazzi rodeo on Rodeo. Honesty
is a horrible trait to defecate.

(… next week on The E True Hollywood boring)

Michael Jackson isn’t dead and
neither is Elvis. They are on a rich dessert
island with Rachel Ray. News at

Eleven. Global warming is a suntan.
War is Punk’d. Life is only a passing of piety to the gods
of merchantry. Eat up, drink up, and sleep with
our credos Flava Flav.

(Bombs bursting in air…CLICK!)

A Tale of Two Kitchens

In the kitchen of joy, Mammaw was the conductor of those spices.
A dash of patience, spoonful of understanding, the sound of praise.
The concerto of love with fresh gravy and biscuits,
mixed together on that cast iron wood burning stove.

In the kitchen of confusion, you were the conductor of the fast train
to fast food,KFC by the bucket, along with microwaved guilt.
You couldn’t even cook that in a conventional oven.
now I’m addicted to all of it-the food,
the alcohol in the Dixie Cup with a shame mixer.

You think you’ve done nothing wrong!
I guess it’s hard to see your blame
circumstances beyond your controlling nature-
Hey, Ma… thanks for the therapy!

Anxiety Attacks or Love?

Breath enters the body like a gasp of peanut
butter. Palms sweating like the
rim of a margarita glass. Knees trembling like
the thump of a trapped hip hop hymn in a Hummer.
Eyes dry, one tear of fear. Chased down
by the love police. They will arrest me for
indecent composure. Hidden in plain sight, the truths
of my lies.
Found out!
Busted!
Put away in loves
asylum.
5150!
I thought meds would cure it. I believed
love was the anecdote. Nope!
sorry.
Just another anxious moment I
couldn’t get away from.

All Out of Truth

Another hip -hop, be- bop version of a flip –flop

fits between the I-tunes FM dial.

Corporate tools claim it’s something new:

the same old Love and Emotions for $10 bucks at your local Wal-Mart:


Wal-Mart, The sweatshop of great art.



Listen: a new, true countrified, jazzabilly, blues number. Play us

a Crunk Juiced Rock n Roll ditty.

The crock o’ shit machine churns out a smelly love song

claiming to be latest trend in truth:


I went shopping for the truth at Best Buy but the clerk said,“Dude, we don’t
carry that here.”

Tragedy / Tragedy?

The Legendary King of Pop Michael Jackson DEAD at 50!

Los Angeles Times 06/25/2009

Innocence
lost in an instant.
Twenty years from now, you would
still be lost. The tragedy could have
been avoided. If we could only find out Who was
your Iago? Who enslaved you to
talent? Who allowed you to dance
to early, die too
soon?

To
Fly to Never, Never
Again Land.
Childhood found? No
one can hurt you here. Fly and be free! Free
to rest, to play, to
weep.

The Real Ed Hardy

Will the real Ed Hardy… the real Ed Hardy please
go out of style. Excruciating
eighties art work with a twist
of trucker hat celebrity, gaudy

glitz and 5th grade cursive writing! It’s amazing
what passes for style. How
about a cool drag of
original thought instead

of those retard retreads that were posh when
you were nursing your Studio
54 hangover. What name costs
more than Christian’s sweatshop? Ed’s

wallets cost more cash than the bambino’s
back bent factory fodder who make
these ridiculous rags so folks
can think someone else’s name is

cooler than their own. Would Christian
Audigier buy a $50 shirt with my name
on it? He'll make a new
fitty with a fresh bambino scribing

Ed Hardy… Ed Hardy.

Wargasm

“You can be killed just as dead in an unjustified war as you can in one protecting your own home.” Will Rogers

Bombs bursting in air
like the orgasm wanting to explode
over and over: Ah hell Dick it
don’t matter who dies in this war
as long as we get off. Don’t tell me you can’t
get it up anymore- just spank it like they do
on the evening news. Hamas slams it to Israel
and they give a reach around to send it flowing back to
the sex o’clock news channel. Heh Heh, Look through here Dick.
Too bad the rest of the country don’t have a glory hole to
watch this war protecting Halliburton.
War doesn’t wear a condom, if it did…
fewer people would die.

But that last drop has to come out
so We the People can feel the slam of the
BANG, BOOM, BANG.
Miss Liberty says, Fuck Me, Fuck Me Harder
and you do George, then
you leave her in the wet spot crying, like
the girl the football player said he loved
just to get her virginity, then walked away….
HER peace, trust, dignity, honesty
now questioned by everyone from her therapist
to Dr. Phil to the masses at Ellis Island. Your
integrity is gone. Her integrity is gone.
Just another locker room tale
has sadly come true. The date rape happened.
She trusted everything.
Why didn’t you go to your 12 Step meeting instead?

I Am From…

Yeeeehaw watching Hee Haw and Hallelujah on Sunday mornings
Puuuraise the Lord on the way to church and Go to Hell on the way to lunch
Seedy southern trailer parks and free lunch milk money
Fried chicken and Kool-Aid and guilt by association

I am from
taking shelter in the radio's warm green glow while F bombs are dropping from the ceiling
Family reunions leading to family dysfunction leading to family desecration
Down south, down home, and downwind from hate’s foul fumes
Hayseed and overalls, outhouse and outsource; now outsourcing the outhouse

I am from
Haggard, Mellencamp, Small Towns and small minds
Weeping willows, weeping widows and big dinners after the funeral
Moonshine and moonlit walks
Spanking the monkey that’s on my back

I am from
Raisin’ Cain and Raisin’ Hell
Beautiful landscapes, beautiful women, and beautiful ideals
The rash realities of rural decay
Grandma’s kitchen, momma’s guilt and daddy’s guidance
Family perdition and hates tradition

I am from
the southern table of hospitality that loves you while you die