Bankrupt

Risen from sewers
in legions - the corrupt
misled fair minds of A CITY,
now to be claimed by those
who only see the vulture's chance

bankrupt


Gritty City with a tilted halo
your spirit has a gangsta' lean.
Tied by hip to the reckless gas machines, you fueled
much growth; now the world chokes
on the four-wheeled felony: poisoning the air we breathe.

City of such loyal oaths, home and place,
those before came to find, peace and fortune
have blessed us. Kept smiles for so many little-ages.
NOW bankrupt and they sell the precious art.
BANKRUPT in chambers of justice poised
to aid the most unjust taking- democracy

The flower of many ages of sacrifice,
young men went only to return old and war-weary.
They fought and some died there, and there, and there...
died so young-- for Democracy.
Dead for the City they shared with their impatient dreams.
Taken away by whom? Who would dare?
Despoil blood gifts of so many heroes-- so many wonders?

It is a callous time, a time of little men
ruled by petty and corrupt, morally-bankrupt;
men possessed of no ideas
except to please their petty masters.
They are not of Democracy, they have raped it,
violated it with low-hearts of foul little men.

THE CITY where dreams come to be born and reborn
A PLACE tied by spirit to a people who wish
to Love a City

The City transforms, it always has-- it was
a place on the water once, now the water
is remembered on sunny days.
It was a place of sudden freedom for
the shameful days of small callous men
and chains.

We know a City, a place
never short of spirit and hope.
Sadly, never lacking small, indifferent men
who take the bounty others have made
and feed it to a base need for greed.

Yet THE CITY endures, finds sunshine
in the dark clouds, a plume of light to
lift us until dawn; a  candle to keep
a beacon for the Love of those
wh gave us this time and place

A CITY that will once again
prove greater than the puny evil
of small and ruthless men; for
in the City, in a Democracy,
there is a way to remove ...trash.

rain dreams...

Cold soaks pierce the calm,
feet take flight, skim rivulets;
in the sting of sweet water
running through the rain.

The meanings of spring rains take hold
grasses shed excess and concrete sieves
conform to the needs of the moment-
clouds spill and we become
the windy mix of hurry and reflex.

It should be thus, the plants and I
in a bow and revel for we all grow
in the wet and green; but so far removed
from the smell of lightning
so far distant from echoes of thunder
modern man- in leather bound feet-
cannot joyful, thrash in the
bounty of rains, not well wish each drop
for the nurture of a seed.

We cannot fathom the ultimate need,  yet we
creatures of love and fear, sea born and
in this blend of wind and popping drops;
I find a soul satisfying melody.

I listen... as I would hear wisdom of the world
I sense... as if I were a forgotten dry place
I  know my skin drinks-in this day
am soaked again in what makes me:
the water's child.

On Interstate 94 ...

...just before the southbound swarm

fills the beauty of a warm spring day

with circle-form angst -journeys

for bills we need to pay-closure

of silly loops; we with brains and souls

chase the ever-moving goals-

debts have made.

On highway 94 an aroma unexpected

among flowered apple and cherry,

random wild flower volunteers

and my eye- that most tactful sense- finds

the wrinkled jowls and chain-dimpled sides

the tender look of tough hog hides

pressed to air holes along  coupled brides

of rumbled tandem trucks,  riders doomed

to be such as delicious, tender, Fathers’ prides

near the toxic charcoal grills; chemical-ed

meats spread with real gooey trans-fat, artificial flavors.

All will be invited to savor the relics

of an earlier time. When holiday

meant beer and smiles, haven’t-seens-for-a-while

All along 94 South, not a sound did I hear

from hundreds of mouths taking in petrol-ed air;

in loop close journeys there too.

A trek that began with survival of a cull

to end with snout and skull jostled

past a poet in a speeding car, watching

for the words they cannot further carry; a sentence

that speaks upon visions of  trucks that reek…

yet wrought a feeling of commonality,

such journeys have we(--)and for all pretense(--)

just as heedless of its certain destiny.

A poem for the next five minutes

Ann said “I would die for my country

for my kids and my country…” and some

few - in an insect nuisance manner- picked and pecked.

Ahhhh  Ann, oh my, so sassy, so SHEroic,
so full of antipathy for those small minds
that seem to crawl up our ankles to bite
and make us itch—irritating sons of a bitch--
like human No-see-ums

and then their thoughts
a roll of nerdish, troll-ish polysyllabic gibberish

sophistry pretended by  mere grunts and ass-scratch

But Ann-
Of course, we would die for our country
our enemies give us no choice
they kill us for our country.
On the battlefield there used to be
a kind chivalry or gallantry
nobles once jousted til a fall
but in Japan for millennia it was heads that fell
deadly serious stuff
then the English also got tough, counter-revolt
burned churches full of people
We kicked their asses back across the Atlantic then
but now play nice (--) ahhh,  Diana
you were the only Royal I was crazy for
the rest are simply crazy to believe
they are God's gift...I mean if George III
was dropped on his head as a Baby—

I'd think George Bush was too (--)

Ahh Ann, I have the concentration of pregnant flea
what was I saying-- ahh yes

those little vipers and snipers

those who know there is no God
that a Black President must be guilty
of something[ bin Laden, Benghazi,  been something!!!...]

I pity them

so small these minds and in such a big world of possibility
them stuck in a time warp:  myth of white superiority
[shit haven't you seen Mitt Romney!!!] WTF--- anyway

we die

for Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann
for the draft dodging Chicken Hawks:
Bush, Romney, Cheney and a cast of bastards
who send our children to die for their money.

We die for street thugs who'd bust a cap in our ass
to steal a car because their  broke-dick
sorry selves can’t buy one

We die for lying lawyers, cheating CPA's
bankers who steal from other bankers who have already stolen
for priests who assault young boys, flaming
assholes who want women to die because they dislike choice

We die, for the slaves who were kidnapped, raped and murdered-
worked to early death to make America rich;
we die for dead heroes of wars and their children
orphans and for women who raise families alone
only to be told they are worthless

--PLEASE VOTE FOR ME, said Romney that little MITT--

We die for Corporate People who neither hunger nor bleed

nor leave orphans

We die for faith in hope, for hope's dying sake
we give up our mortal hold

and know that only by love
of the despicable and the beautiful
the angelic and demonic, the prideful
and the humble  by every billion-breathed creature
only by love-- do we live on.

12th & D

in a neighborhood where a border

ebbed and flowed like tides

the gentrified and the untamed

made an uneasy peace

like old cobblestone sidewalks and fresh pastel paints,

moments of smiles and acceptance.

in the near shadow of a Capitol

in the airways and alleyways

group of untamed boys become a mob

a Guinea Fowl,(--)a zoo fugitive(--) now prey of a wilding

amid screams and shouts, hurled cobblestones

a frantic bird an even more frantic hunt

While on the street, people with bright futures

people with dim and hazy pasts,  passed.

Shiny new car keys and day old liquor bottles

branded each; they shared sidewalks

but not evening talks, tolerance

was the watch word as howling boys

and clucking hen, acted out a scene

from an African forest…and no one looked up

to count stars or envy the shape of the moon

they were worlds apart here…on this narrow city street.