Poetry

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.

They speak of charity
Resenting the little they give
And of mercy
When merciless with those whose trust they have betrayed,

Since I have seen the peeled truth of mortality and ecology, and earth’s future is to become Byron’s “lump of death,” my plan is to dance wildly and work on, oh, my God! sounding like Bless their hearts.