It’s Dark, We’re Dark

It’s Dark, We’re Dark
This light is the enemy
It Dark, We’re Dark
The bug ain’t bitin’ me

It’s Dark, We’re Dark
Kiss like rain roll over you
It’s Dark, We’re Dark
Will you remember

The feel of me
When all we have
Are electric snaps that fire
Between the squishy flesh

It dark and our memories
Should be allowed to rest.



For D

And the plane took off
Her face stuck in a smile.
I looked over her shoulder
As Tibet shrank beneath us.
It was like pulling away from
a beautiful beach as you watch
waves quickly erode it. A void
of blue seemed to pull us upward
as we look back to earth
longing to stay but needing to leave

Leaving China

And in the End it dawns on you
How unimportant you are
To this person. Despite the intimacy,
The kiss, hugs, conversations and jokes
They are walking away one syllable at a time.
You can spurn them with all that is in you
Or hold on as they pull away.

You are happy here in China. The bartender
Know exactly what you drink and how you drink it.
The free stick of BBQ at the street stall. The friends
Whose jokes lift you up and who buy the first round.
The guyd who’d after the 5th will tell you to go home
Or throw you in a cab. The gal who tell you secrets.
You are happy here. The job that is easy but tiring.

Worshippers at the Temple

Oh, America
you temple

whose call
roots in self
between the Romans
and the Aztecs.
Blood runs
in the streets
and yet knives
must remain sharpend.
The blades we carry
will protect us
from the gleam
of other blades.

Oh, America
you temple

of the machines,
Organ grinders,
funeral directors,
and scarpping
from the ground
in dried blood.

Oh America,
you temple

that never
allow silence.
When the news
overwhelms me
I used to
find solace
in a bottles,
clear liquids
brown ones,
until the Atlantic.
A tomb
and a traqulizer.

Oh, America
I don’t want
to return to you

but what is left
for a black man
who see through
the songs. Marching,
fighting, the personal
is political so no one
is a real personal anymore.
We are all politician,
protestors, organ grinders,
typestters, funeral directors,
we ain’t all bloodletters.


Do you remember the slow river
that passed below your feet
and wrapped your words in
gruggles and glups? “Walk”,
you said because the water
is shallow. The river was slow
moving you said. Slow things
aren’t deep, you said. “Walk”,
you said and now as I sink, you run.
You scream for me to come back.