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| photo by Edward Rinaldi |
(prelude)
Atlas is still shrugging
an outpouring of entrails to liquor amnii
there is no need to be some other
just another future brother father lover
and friend I be to thee
can happiness follow the gauntlet road home
despite the hail of bullets and arrows slung
with projectile intention death
will life leave me bereft of decency
and seeking words more and more
to hide behind
with no morals
do I crawl further
under, Edward or might I be
the perfect uncle sam-iam
slum fed go-getter ...
fucking mothers
and the baby sitters
keeping for myself
all kinds of things
I pretend I need ...
reader ...
do you want to come cage me
for beating my meat to the punch ...
I tell you Judy isn't home
but you can watch the wizard of oz
it is on an infinite loop
with dark side of the moon
playing along side it ...
(poem)
we headed out for the morning
slow gait-ing our steps
down the lane
and into this small walled city
through the stone archways
we filed past
store counter glass cases
filled with overnight magic
what awaits the morning throngs
of shoppers, passersby
and the off to work
head bowed why
denizens
in suits and ties
we heard stories
from over the other side
pond politics and high seas shenanigans
building island out of remediated sand
and scrap metal with nanobot tie downs
epidemic of wordlessness :
apathy swallows us
patriotism is nationalism
lock-stepped-goose-marching's not far behind
faceless mobs always shouting more death please less bread
given the wielded ones
we strike deals, weigh privilege
versus payment
for pleasure
what do we have to do
to be a being in order
we step towards heaven
on top of someone else
here it seems we must crush
to feel upwardly mobile
and salvageable
the soul
sometimes
just a
vessel game hierarchy
what does one fill a life with
on the way to what heaven
it has imagined it deserves
I am from Troy
named after an ancient city
built on greed and ingenuity
I am a tuning fork
I am a sound disciple poet
I hear smells become words
I like the way they make me feel
I am struggling to be me in America
here, you smell what words do
some say nothing
some scream while others are ignored
more still are lauded for their distractions
love means things
differently here
and it is not clearly fitted to all
I am glad I know who is John Galt
I am glad I am not a woman
or black or Mexican or gay or Muslim
or thought
of in some way
as tortuously ugly
in some misconstrued
social contract
of affection to meaning
white privilege
after all is a boon to me, though
no one who receives it
really likes to talk about
but I am a poet
and in this country
I may yet
have to wear
a scarlet letter
for being so
I can't imagine
the weight of things heard
inside the neighborhoods
in my city and the in between spaces
we Trojans eek out a living in
tell you visions herding
us with opinion,
our thoughts chained
to the subtleties
of jim crow ghost whisperers
I fear the police and I am white
I can't imagine
and I won't try
to understand the pains
or indignation(s) daily suffered
by those not deemed American enough
by those with guns
and the law at their side
I have my own issues
to deal with
as with being
born with a brain
in a constant
state of kerflooey
(prologue)
in the corporate news cycling
and re-cycling we are hearing things said
in a commonplace manner
as if this truth is what is right
and is meant for us to understand
why and what keeps white men in power
in any town
in America
read any comments
in any article involving
a white police officer
shooting a black man
and you're bound to hear
< he's black
he probably was selling drugs
he deserved to be shot
why try and run from an officer
if he wasn't guilty of a crime >
well if you ask me
we humans have triggers galore
especially the western civilized
modernity addict kinds
historically forgetful plebes
we be ...
who is to say
we are the species
meant by God
to inherit
this great earth
I say viruses
are better suited
to be kings and queens
and usually
don't discriminate
who they kill
with a smile too
or didn't you see
how the death
of Rome
became home
to all we wanted to be
once ago when the bathhouses
were free of pride
and prejudice
isn't it funny how scent
often follows us to
the end of the poem
like the waft rot of flesh
left in the streets
murder after murder
in the still air humidity
of Summer behind the white noise
and coolness of air conditioning
we sing the praises of ...
as long as its not me
or in my backyard
it's fine to be American
how do we accept this as truth
how can we become
a normal again
how it is we laud
vampires and zombies
as entertainment
and friend
these fine days
in sound bite
movie-like finality
with scored
back tracks
and retraced steps
all the living
we've done
in our different
shoes have taken
and from the dead
who wore them
with laces
we tied their shoes together
and threw them up over
the power lines
to memorialize
how we are all
we can be now
leftists right wingers
centrist mules
drug dealers
preachers poachers
and sycophants
ants and hoppers
for handouts
governed fools
corporate tools
fodder fodder
like water, everywhere ...
someone, anyone please
ask of yourself
who is John Galt now
and what might have he to ask
watching another hearse
with someone you know, pass
on by, you decide how to pay respect
flowers in the cracks
growing out of the buckled walk
you see on the way home
will do just that
so you pick and pick and choose
to wish they might have had
a better chance
like you did, poet ...
EJR ©
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