Decade

On a postmodern roam through post-
mortem Rome,
my main man and his ridiculous dream,
accumulation,
a signature union, square zeroes,
half a downtown away,
believing his
why-live-here under a distinct,
defunct districting, the Southeastern
seaport’s
caucusing clockface,
illumined,
vibrating that vision, scorched-out,
yellow—faded memory, fading polaroid,
finally, wholly processed.

Florida

They—the all-closed—breaking
out from flogged off memory,
beneath forgetting skies.
glistening, radio-free, sounding
out the century, when we
served as two, and then as one,
and then as other than
we could find
ability
to offer to ourselves,
and then in another,
for both, now gone,
so I write in free measure
by liquefied flight from impunity’s liberties.

And So

And so the God
of Groucho
dances zig-zags
in tails
and so the God
of Chico
chances monies
on ponies
and so the God
of Harpo

And so the God
of Lemon Jefferson
moved
his matchbox,
and so the God
of H. Ledbetter
whoa…
buck-bucked,
and so the God
of Son House—
smiling
in your face

And so the God of Abraham
kissed Rachel. And so the God
of Isaac raised his voice.
And so the God
of Jacob
wept