If you are a native
speaker of digital
or
if you were born analog 
and learned digital
or even
if you’re analog still
pure
analog

no matter what
I’m still your people,
your people, don’t leave me,
don’t leave me,
please don’t go away

if
when Jay-Z and Kanye are mentioned
the room glows neon gold
for you
if
when KRS-One and Chuck D are mentioned
the room glows fire-red warm
for you
but
if Mutubaruka is mentioned
if Blowfly is mentioned
if Linton Kwesi Johnson 
or Lee Scratch Perry are mentioned
and you find yourself sitting in the dark
they’re still your people, your people;
you can know them, your people, your people;
don’t leave them, leave them, your people,
please don’t go away…

There is nothing easier 
than ignorance
in this country
that enables ignorance
as a point of pride

I spent the 80s ignorant
of Michael Jackson
When I say this
people are amazed

It was easy

Easy enough to disappear left of the dial
into an alternative punk rock
world music classical folk-friendly hole
where it was required that you sneered
at what everyone else was doing

Segregation 
was easy there
Still is

So don’t leave me, don’t leave me
I’m still your people, your people
Please don’t go away

Let’s play a game
You say one thing, I’ll negate it
At the end we’ll see who wins

You say
Kerouac 
I say  
co-opted rebellion
You say Bukowski
I say
drunk
I say
Watchmen
you say
unwatchable men
I say 
Geronimo
You say
bin Laden
You say
baseball
I say 
what the hell is that

And someone will validate you
And someone will validate me
And we’ll find boxes where we can hide

but don’t leave me, don’t leave me
I’m still your people, your people
Please don’t go away

above all
the quietest division
that we are not the same
at all
that we are unique and suffering
and ecstatic
each unable to understand each
each unable to speak to each
generations and communities juxtaposed
and bound away from touching
because we each say we do not know
the truth of the other side
or deny the truth on the other side
we are more than our pop culture
my trivial penstroke is your vital document
your passionate gold is my aluminum trinket

please
don’t go away
because there is a gulf between us
please
don’t go away
because they don’t teach swimming around here
please
don’t go away
my people
I reach for you
you’re a sight for blind eyes
please 
don’t turn away

A prayer of full love
is a prayer aware
of flaw, perfection,
shade, sex, and 
skin.  It is solid —
sweet as agave nectar,
firm as rose-pink fruit:

and it is particular. So

when we speak
in adoration of being, of voice,
can we dismiss such details as
the gender of gums
and the way in which 
they hold
teeth, form words,
support
the bite? 
Is blood clear
when it pours from those
wounded
in struggle?
Is there
any satisfying hymn
to bones
that praises them for strength,
but does not note
their appearance?

When I hold my arms out to you —
colorful,
fleshy, ripe
for complete embrace;
when I take you in the same way,
the whole of you
for my sustenance, and I offer
my whole as well…

when this hymn is sung,
it is sung for the details.

1.
Inside little Johnny’s head, what were once
“learning experiences” are being remodeled
into “failures” and “mistakes.”
That’s not his head’s fault;
you might blame his parents
or peers or even his teachers for it.
And in a few years, someone will. In fact,
affixing blame for what goes on in Johnny’s head
is going to be a national pastime
a couple of years from now.

2.
The man in the yellow shirt
is not a suspect in the disappearance
of the young mother.  At least,
not right now he isn’t.  Give it time.

3.
The combination of long term consumption
of particular brands of pickles — sour or dill — 
and tap water from old municipal pipes
causes virulent cancers.  No researcher
is ever going to discover this. 

4.
As a symbolic gesture in the fight
for equality,
we’ll eventually give up
numbering things — why commemorate
what came first?

—

A lonely man
is going to write some poems.
Another lonely man
is going to read those poems
and say, “That guy
really gets me.”  
One day they’ll meet
and their loneliness
will form a black hole.
Everything they know will disappear
into that hole,
which will be renamed
“a school curriculum.”
It will be widely used,
and will be in use
at the school little Johnny —
you must recall little Johnny —
will attend.  
Little Johnny will like the lonely black-hole poetry
and will write some lonely black-hole poetry 
of his own. Some of it will eventually be published
in a psychological journal, and on the front page
of The New York Times.  

Assholes
who divide, who eat
starch spread with blood,
who crawl, who creep,
who ghettoize, who rationalize,

who do not see pain,
who trivialize, who are of
the cold Lizard Brain Tribe;

assholes who stroll human
and strike viper, who racialize,
who cleave and shred and opine,

who liberal/conservative lie,
who black and white everything,
who insist on filing everything,
who smile steel and sing molten lead;

assholes who claim they do not defecate
except as pure Godhead,
who alien outlaw,
who char the undeclared blasphemous,
who discount self-explanatory;

assholes who are you
and are me, who stand beside us
in grocery lines,  who sneer at something
we ate, who shit on the floor
and call it floor wax, who tender
the skulls of our ancestors as payment
for the sins of today —

bless them.  Bless them, the assholes
who will not learn they are always
behind, who treat Life as a pushpin 
on a piechart marking their progress,
who will not be stanched in their flow,
who will be God’s chosen always, who knew God
way back when and think God will remember them;

bless them, I say, with your tears;
bless their horned response to this world
that knows their crap and will call them on it 
someday when the percentages shift.  

And bless ourselves.
We are assholes with them,
claiming the same things, claiming to see ahead
when we are always in fact bringing up the rear —
we are a place to sit and hold up the Light Body
of Creation as it contemplates and accepts,
yet are such assholes
that we cannot see that it’s enough to be still
and carry weight
and offer comfort to the effort. 

He was finishing lunch
when the Beast approached
and leaned in like a tornado
to take him.

He looked into the face
of threat
and then calmly used his pocketknife
to slit his own throat,

letting the green apple
fall from his hand,
its peelings trailing from it
like battle flags.

No suicide — a warrior
who denied the enemy his prize.
A man doing his best
when there was no hope:

sometimes retreat
is the best part
of a broken life.  How
do you like them apples?

On the road for work and drinking on an unexpected dime tonight
in the luxury hotel, having come into solid cash courtesy of

a lucky roll of the dice, I call a friend to come and join me, sharing
wealth I didn’t plan to have; it seems just and right.

“Come and drink with me,”
I say to him.  “Tonight we will consume

in quantity, drink like rich white men:
without regard as to cost, on money that came to us

unearned, and with a cavalier disregard
as to damage we may cause or aggravate.”

So to the hotel comes my ragged friend Joe the painter,
decked out in a Lakers jersey and a scrappy beard.

We burn good cigars out on the deck,
fill our hands and hearts with top-shelf booze;

laugh loud and pay no mind to the stares
of those seated all around:  him in the oversized purple and gold

and me in a too-tight Misfits T
that had seen far better days, by which I mean

it is just perfect.  We drink like any old drunks tonight:
swearing we won’t have more to drink and then drinking more,

not knowing how hammered we are until we stand up
from the sticky, squeaky leather seats and almost fall over.

I pour Joe into a cab and pray I’ve got the address right,
then head upstairs to sit in a cold shower for an hour

before crawling to the bed and trying to sleep enough
to make the morning flight ahead less onerous;

it’s a failure, and while I’m strong enough to hold my puke in
until I’m safely on the ground back home,

there’s not a question in the world that I’m not strong enough
to hold it past the baggage claim curb.  I let it go

in the trash can, then straighten up and get to my car
and drive home to collapse in my own bed,

dead to the phone and the mail and the daylight.
When I rise that evening, I say it out loud to my empty room

the thing I have wanted to say for hours:
we really drank like poets last night —

with a full if disguised awareness of what torture we’d soon endure
as a certain and necessary consequence

of holding such windfall gold
in our too often empty hands.

Darlings, I’ve swallowed
too many platitudes from you all.

If positivity was a drug,
I’d be River Phoenix by now.

They’d have investigated you,
tossed a book of Gibran at your smile.

If so, would you remember me today
as fondly as we do him? Or

would you have blocked me out,
thinking me stupid

for dying from sugar poisoning?
Would you ask yourself

how it could be that a man died
from an overdose of light?

If you were me,
you’d understand.

I was born to be the praise
for what crawls from under the rock.

I was born to be sullen art.
I was made for contrast.

Know I didn’t choose this.
I’d have rather been sunlit,

blind from the glare of day.
I do appreciate your cheer.

But sometimes your words
are doubled by a voice

saying, “Not that.  Not that.”
Neglected darkness speaking?

I don’t know. I just know
how I am when it sounds off:

I’m most comfortable
with that in my ear.

Call me a downspout
for psychic rain.

Call me a slipped noose
or a damaged launch. Not that —

I am the brother of those.
The diary of a charm

against what we won’t name.
Keep your affirmations —

I can’t learn that tongue;
the one I know, I know too cold.

A short vacation,
hiatus, rest break,
sabbatical

until the day after 
everything
blows over.  Will be

back after a few words
from our sponsor

who expected us
to work harder
and longer
for his dollar.  

He doesn’t seem pleased
or inclined to re-up
the contract as

it seems everything went to Hell
while we were sitting back
and enjoying the inattention
to detail.

No idea
what we’ll be doing now
that the gig’s fallen through; 

sit very still
watching the dark horizon,
I suspect,
at least until night
closes in. 

rocking like a sand bar
in current, particles flowing off
with every wave, there goes
what I loved, here comes
what I’ll love now, shape
shifting, now crescent, now
straight line, now blockage
to tides, now broken barrier,
perhaps husks will wash up
and bulk me up, perhaps
I’ll be an island, perhaps
a continent

or maybe I’ll
wash away, get into
the seabed, become a beach, 
grit in someone’s shoes, dragged
or carried inland, washed off
in a cold shower, down a drain, 
end up at rest far from home,

a memory of past nautical history,
found in a crime scene, mystery of
forensics, evidence of change,
cryptozoological marker,
here was a mermaid passing
at some point, a kraken, a dead sailor,
pirate gold, something, anything to spark
an imagination,

the mundane nature
of what I’d been lost, no record 
of what loves I’d lost and gained, 
my mere physical trace all that remains
and that much of me made to tell a story
I’m not a part of,

as the ocean
takes me in without making me a part,
as the drain carries me away
without calling me to itself to stay.

All along the walls of watchtowers
that keep inner sanctum sacred
the hymns of longing
rise, supplicating for bread
and access.  With a raised eyebrow,
those inside intone spells
and make ritual gestures —

delicacy,
the tool of the upperclass
when there’s a need
to put someone back
in place;

etiquette,
a menu for delicacy,
a ghostly menace
behind it. Dig deep and see
how door holding and fork placement
condescend to some, set tiger traps
for others.

Fashion,
a uniform for separatism;
accent, a marker for acceptance or rejection;
grammar, a two-edged sword
guarding the gates of Paradise;

all so beautiful that soon enough
we aspire to our own prisons,
to acquire
our own sets of keys,
our shackles,
our marching orders.

Are we not handsome now
with our hybrid vigor
draped in such vicious elegance?

Once upon a time
I stole a tooth
from the skull of a virgin saint.
When planted, the tooth
bloomed a library.
I read deeply for months.

The virgin’s story,
captured on parchment,
reeked of flowers and sand.
A soldier met her, thought to take her,
then thought again; those words
were scented with iron and spikenard.

When I put down those books
I understood the nature of restraint,
but the distance between understanding
and practicing is wide.  So I returned to the relics,
stole another tooth, and swallowed it.

No secret worth keeping exists 
without a little pain.  No knowledge
blooms to being unless fed by blood.
That tooth bit deep.  It filled me 
not only with my own blood —
but I must hold my tongue about what it gave me
as I tasted sand, ground its grit 
between my own once-ignorant teeth.

I sit now in an impotent library.
Every book read, every page turned —
I’m no better a man than I was before the thefts
and the plantings, though at least I know now
how short I’ve fallen. How deeply I am flawed
when I compare myself to that soldier
who turned from the virgin, took nothing from her
though he had the chance,
and lived happily ever after. 

man o man
we are getting to the point
of needing to know how
a throat is slit —  

the piglet is struggling and we know
it’s got to be strung up by
its hind legs and
the blood’s got to be drained

but 
we also know
you’re not the kind of guy
to do that
and as the host
you could save face

by delegating the
honor or the chore to a trusted friend

and we’re all drunk
and hoping and fearing
that you’ll choose us

but never mind — you say you’ll do it

and when it’s time
we envy you
your chance at sanctioned mayhem
and your willingness to do it
your not-quite eagerness to do it

so when you are ready
we gather
and watch your face
not your hands

and man o man
it’s
something to see 

Woke up thrashing,
throat on full choke,
hands throwing war shapes.
I ask the night,

if breathing were simpler
who would I be?  If nights
were easier and uninterrupted
who would I be?

Comes a voice:

Don’t blame
the blocked back of your throat
or the subsequent storm
in your enzymes

for the look on the front of your head:
that’s no mask.
There’s no other hiding
inside your illnesses.  By all the signs,

you’re a bastard.  
By your age
almost everyone who’s left
is.  All this sound and rage

is real, is impotent,
is yours.  Own it
and stop moaning for your other self:
there’s no one to be comforted there,

and you know it.  
You’re a complete bastard.
Embrace it, hold it tenderly to your
lard-gray chest — and if you are going to be up,

fold some clothes,
do some dishes, because
that warrior-sickbed persona of yours
won’t get the house clean.