DEAD HOURS OF DAWN
Sitting here in my small apartment
winding down the morning hours
the fog blankets the city like
a police dragnet
Shaman poets sing in my ears
under an imaginary bed of stars
brings back images of young women
with dresses that clung to firm thighs
damp dark cavern wet as morning dew
peach fuzz dinner drew me in
devoured me like quicksand
Born premature at home
I survived to walk the jungles of Panama
fed off North Beach Beat Mania
Now alone and eighty-five
I sit at Martha’s Café with
a cup of coffee for company
as visions of the past take root
seek refuge in my memory bank
The wind sharp as a knife
propels me toward my destiny
my boyhood gone like an old jalopy
used-up rusting in an auto junkyard
I head toward the comfort of the now
nailed to the cross of the past
in the language of the present
with no words to light the fire like
a mountain climber weighed down
with a heavy backpack
Vague recollections of my mother
holding me in her arms
the chill of a startled waking
the tongue of dawn cold as dry ice
A dog bars at an imaginary enemy
a cat yawns in boredom
the universe draws new boundary lines
fragile as a newborn baby
The monkey rides his master’s back
fearful police lock and load their guns
black boys moving targets in the night
Voter suppression laws
to keep the power structure intact
southern barbecues with rednecks
hungry for black boy stew
gone the passion of revolution
sell out satisfaction to the status quo
the night hounds of death stumble
into the light of day
the rich roast the poor like
a pig on a spit
The war machine moneymakers
fuel the cash registers of America
with the blood of our youth
The Roman Senate proceeds unabated
turn out gladiators like machinery parts
Endless parades marching bands waving flags
played out like a Disney Land production
Slaves without chains
government without representation
this nation of criminal politicians
The ghost of Custer rises like
a creature from the lagoon
creeps through the night like
a faceless Santa Claus with
a bag of Indian scalps
Allah competes with the Pope
for the rights to the head of Jesus
beheaded by ISIS barbarians
back from a night of slaughter
The congregation stumbles like
a drunk into the future
as I wait for the night hours
try to shut out the demons of insomnia
The all-night carousel runs non-stop
spits out gold rings at the patrons
the ticket-taker caught in the stampede
The holy of the unholy money makers
hide inside their gold temples
pass new laws that feed on the bones
of the poor and dispossessed
A future where animals turn into animal crackers
and wingless birds hop frantically around
the thanksgiving dinner table
knifes stuck in their breasts waiting
to be served as a holiday feast
The angels occupy the box-seats
at Yankee Stadium
God sends down a bolt of lightning
dismayed at the flawed diamond
he created in his image