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born at home premature
I grew up to walk the jungles of Panama
fed off Beat Mania
in the streets of North Beach

shaman poets sang in my ear
under a bed of stars
young women with dresses
that clung to firm thighs
damp dark cavern wet as morning dew
drew me in devoured me like quicksand

the sweet fragrance of the past
mates with comrades long dead
the wind propels me toward my destiny
my boyhood an old jalopy
rusting in an auto junkyard

Labor Day 2023
I who never crossed a picket line
lean toward the comfort of the now
nailed to the cross of yesterday
in the language of the present
with no words to light the fire

a blackbird sweeps down from the sky
a dog howls at the moon
a cat yawns in boredom
the universe draws new boundary lines
the coo-coo bird moves backward into the clock
fearful police lock and load their guns
black boys moving targets in the night
gone the passion of revolution
sell out satisfaction to the status quo

the rich roast the poor like a pig on a spit
labor unions ground up like dog food
the war machine moneymakers
bleed the blood of our youth
like an undertaker dresses the dead

the Roman Senate proceeds unabated
turn out gladiators like machinery parts
endless parades with marching bands
played out like a Disney Land commercial
slaves without chains
government without representation
this nation of criminal politicians

the ghost of Custer rises
like an alligator from the swamp
creeps through the night like a faceless
Santa Clause with a bag of Indian scalps

the holy of the unholy money exchangers
make and pass new laws
laws that feed on the bones
of the poor and dispossessed
a future where animals turn into animal-crackers
and birds are served live as a holiday feast

Jesus speaks in thunder
God sends down a bolt of lightning
dismayed at the flawed diamond
he created in his image