Poetry

Whatever the cause or agent that left him in this condition for the crossing
of North Avenue no longer matters, is beneath contempt, not owed
the dignity of a name, though it twists and continues to twist his spine
away from the path he would travel, rolling his head, his gait as he staggers

Anything the dark
says goes:
for instance someplace downcoast (it says)
a risen flamingo stalls, cramps
on the air & drops out of all resplendence.

left my family
left my friends
left my house, jeep, and harley
left my kush uni gig & a doctorate degree (in the making)
left my poetry community
   my beloved new orleans

That rain forest isn’t making anybody any money
and we see a quick buck in the clearing of it
 
One banana, two banana, three banana, four
With labor this cheap, we can tally many more

I can see Chere, hip Chere,
with thick, long brown hair,
t-shirts and faded Levi’s—
grunge cool before
Starbuck’s set up
its first coffee shop.

One of the children will lose her daughter
in one of the towers on  9/11.
 
One of the children will run a huge publishing house
selling best-sellers about 9/11.

Today it is Palestine. 
Tomorrow 
they will come 
for all the rest 
of the malcontents,

they understand that adjectives
are the wrong kind of solution
and that the verbs will only arrive
once it is too late

We’re not afraid.
We’re not here.
We’re molting.
We’re unpracticing breath.
We’re clinging to the bell rope.
We’re kissing the morphine drip.