_________________________________________________
Some Days Baby
Some days baby
I wake up
missing you
your breath on my chest
smell of your hair
scent of sex on me
Other days pretty girl
I wonder
if you were a dream
of a mythic longing
an ancient ache
that only you might heal.
The strubble strewn street
helicopters swarming
the broken down
live-in cars
shards of glass
glitter in this ghetto galaxy.
I stumble to my car
smiling, well-spent
is this the night
they find me
capped
brains across the windshield
cops wonder
what was this old fool
doing over here
at 4 in the morning-
must be drugs or pussy.
No one will ever know
the secrets I discovered
night after night
bent bowed
she wrapped me up
put me on my knees
heat it was the heat
the sweat the secret places
the longing
the wetness
my oh my how we made love
some days baby
I just wake up
missing you
knowing it was
all worth it.
December 2004
Who Will Pack My Boxes?
Who will pack my boxes
when the time comes?
There is much to be said for a life
reduced to five boxes
give away what you have
make your friends richer
if only a little before you die.
Only my memories will remain.
Leave no trace.
I will pack my own boxes
and die with a whisper
no one will secretly wish
for my passing,
get it over with
ease his misery
I wish he'd hurry up and die!
Death will not come
calling at my door.
He will be invited in
as a guest at my table
we will smoke cigars
as I call him foul names
we will get drunk together
profanity will erupt
as we howl into the night.
I will not wait until it is too late.
We have an obligation to the tribe.
When it is my time
I will make it so, I will not linger.
November 2005
Iver Johnson
It was one o'clock in the morning
just got back from
her fortieth high school reunion
where I discovered
she was a cheerleader
and home-coming queen
the first Negro woman
that was the word she used
to hold the title
because she was dark
it was an even bigger deal
so she explained
We stood in my kitchen
really just a hallway
with a sink stove
and refrigerator
munching apples.
No chairs.
We did not venture
into my apartment
both knew the night
would soon end.
Then she asked me if I knew Iver Johnson.
I said the name sounded familiar but
who or what is Iver Johnson?
She got real quiet for a long time.
I waited.
Staring into my sink
the words struggle
stumble slowly
told me that on February something
or other in nineteen fortyeight
said it was the kind of pistol
her father used to kill her mother
when she was one year old
then turned it on himself.
October 2005
