let’s just start with comic relief & say there’s a little w-a-r-sh in the middle of every wash & sunflowers never take on a normal life span & poetry in lieu of rent won’t cut it & all those billions dumped to the bankers won’t stop those oil tankers from floating toward the edge (nor bring those steel jobs back) & yes the abyss might be a state of mind but real souls have choices only the forest knows and the calling comes when we least expect it & every lonesome ride to the border must be a beginning
my passport was stolen from the backseat of my van a hidden place violated and in its place an expired passport of a guy born in 1922 (let him remain anonymous) though his thick brown moustache could give him away
and there’s more: right rear wheel was gone van creaked left on a scissors-jack spare tire walked or never was
scene two: a dozen of us marching up centre avenue on the sidewalk signs say stop police violence a motorcycle cop buzzes over with a cold tense look ultimately peels away without word
it was the centre avenue before urban removal people actually sitting on their stoops watching us......not quite believing we were pale gray tho our banners many colors
destination a bushy hilltop known as sugar hill we scatter what time is left for dreams imagined & real
