Displacement

"What if we've been trying to get to where we've always been."

You come crashing down the 7:20
into AC and I'm myself again, the little boy
in front of the camera spouting jokes and stories
and loose associations, I'm late because
I was singing and have a poor memory,
Not like your pencil-notebook precision,
I'm obnoxious again, I'm all out, self-doubt
aside or at least verbalized.
I hold all this in usually and then
You arrive and it all comes spilling out.
I'm trying to tie down myself for the change
Running through every place I will be and have been
Trying to hold onto something, trying to
find myself amid the rush of memories and what's coming,
Throwing myself at songs, poems, waves, water shows,
To drown out the sad thoughts
The leavings.
Every minute and place is a complex web of associations,
comparisons, possibilities, we could do better,
we could do more, we could be
adventurers instead of story-tellers, but
I guess it's not settling if it's your dream and in a breakneck muttertv-society
we don't even know our own
Thread brother, sister, continuities,
I wish I was more like you more brick,
We'll miss each other by one hour,
one day, one phrase that throws us into thought
or distrust. We'll miss the show by two and
I'll run right past you before I pick up the phone,
I'm restless with the lack of intensity, lazing beach
I defer on so many things, I don't start conversations,
even though you're here for me,
I'm the center of attention but I'd rather just be invisible
And frame your frames and faces, listen, sit, be present,
And hear your beloved voices that remind me yes,
you are still here, and you're not afraid of me, yes,
you accept my presence. I want to lock-in your faces,
your words, your wisdom, mental pictures. Mine(d) is
washing-machine tumbling all these things
in a soapy sea inside, stuck inside
laundering future memories
for the sake of sanity.

Broken Bell

People stand in line for
some broke-ass bell,
Some symbol for some
Broke racist country, liberty or some such something
Rebelling against the Lords because they are far away
And you can make more money not paying the king,
ya got all kinds-a people in line,
West Coast kids with long hair and hats,
Indian student flirting with her boyfriend,
The business women talking of partying and some Guatemalan guy
she thinks is sexy,
The exhibit shows pictures of a solemn First Nation chief,
Ghanian delegations, the Dalai Lama, Thomas Edison,
all visiting the broke-ass bell, and they even got one
of Nelson Mandela, cuz he stands for something free,
And they gave him an award or something.

When you're poor, what's it mean to be free?
That bell don't even ring.

People stand in line for some
Stale-ass bread,
Some pity for some
Broke alcoholic, addiction or some such something,
Reeling from the disillusionment/failure/loss/pain
And you can make your own escape on alms from democracies
Ya got all kinds-a people in line,
Heroin addicts with long dread locks, moms and babes,
mechanics who broke something, deportees,
Gangstas with brights colours and polished sneaks.
The young ones talking of partying,
The walls show pictures of some great long-ago saint,
Jesus with a big heart,
An American flag waves,
Waiting for some stale-ass bread
While someone speaks,
Cuz even with God lunch ain't never free,
And if you're homeless He'll give you hell or something.

When you're poor, what's it mean to be free?
Preachers all about bread and money.

People stand in gutted-home hurricanes
Soul spiritual 'soon ah will be done'
Hope amens and sings,
Sitting on the dirt street sipping sodas,
Children laughing, fearful fathers, alcoholics and
single mothers cracking jokes over a rich meal at evening.
A sad parade of clowns, orphans, saxophones, suits, holed coats,
widows in most elaborate hats
The Spirit moving,
The feast begun,

While the rich guard the doors to their sanctuary,
And guide people to their seats away from some broke-long-dead body
that once spoke 'come to me.'
A broken bell that once rang liberty.

The Most Beautiful Girl

The most beautiful girl I ever met
Had crooked eyes, didn't talk straight,
Brain didn't work right, dirt brown skin, dirty pink sweatshirt,
a bowl cut.
But she sang. She sang her guts out,
over 30 other off-key women and girls.
And when we stopped, she called me aside
And persisted to teach me a song that has
Stuck in my head ever since. She sings:

"Tomado de la mano, con Él yo voy,"
Full of Faith, Full of Love.

Some Type of Way

Sometimes I apologize for things I never say
For jealousy and pain.
For disappointment I refrain from speaking
Out I don't know how to say I feel
some type of way.

Monet Soleil Levant

Sol soleil
Purple strokes Monet clouds
of dust fog Middle East
Parliamentary majority Sharia
Hand lost, the Goons for Always
Boys like Napoleon throwing stones
Revolución for Democracy against American-
Imposed Old Men Rembrants
Scratch their beardy heads
Or perhaps rub their palms on neatly-
pressed khaki desert dirty olive
oil underneath fingernails grubby brain
dead nerve
gas bombings, Kurds and weigh, martyrs, scales,
Dishonesties, Washington Zombies and Saudi Sheikhs
Cirque drama sand
Americans bombing the Yemen
President says "oh yeah that was me" lying beside
Xerxes Alexander the Caliphate
Saladin Napoleon Saddam Obama
Conquistadores Sol shines hard on these
Ozymandiases sol sand
shifts into different piles redraw border
Van Gogh lines

Ciel Monet sky Dubai
Cell phone society two towers
Egalité brothers
Play king of the Temple Mount
The no man's land Maginot, Caliphs and Popes
Feed the kids bullets and oil, Rubens Christ,
Blood-spattered pocked-marked
Street corner churches and mosques
And prefects and mobs, Hypatia,
Lost hands lost fathers angry kids, wailing
headscarffed Renoir portraits, Hamas,
Stick it to the man
Throw a shoe, take a few
with you
Everything we do
Rearranging castle Seurat molecules in the sand-
box throwing the little people under Tonka
trucks, tanks, and smart
bombs soleil no shine sweep the
streets of bullets, bombs,
mines polished chest medals, purple Kahlo hearts,
Lost hands.