Factory Juke

You know I seen mine
buksta faced grandfathers,

havin dere a time of it,
on dere fartin asses:

Whoop whipping it up,
a cry like laughter,

slick busting those
black neck bells,

slide up, un a slide down,
through a horn curved dark.

Well the holyman was a holding,
got busy fats all a speakin:

once red bottled Coke,
all Houston is slide.

Before canoeing a guitar

(daisy yellow and dustin’,
in back corner).

The red spoon did pine,
remain spendin his dime—

his last three days
o’ nickeled worth change.

And The Green (greened Aaron):

A survival afoot, a left a loom,
in side a soft, soft, blouse of cloth.

Then gropin up ground to
er denimed blue, right near close

to is right pit. Tips flicking
too, hard swinging dem blues—

a “Sweet Georgia Brown”.

At Last, gave er a bug, tweakin
brass, damnin up minted mud.

No felt dip dere, just was
a fuckin wit a stud.

Hypotetical

If only we
danced with the messiah on land

If only we
sang when a peace was at hand

If only we
hugged when kings read the greeks

If only we
kissed during extended French weeks

If only we
loved on top an armistice parade

If only we
plugged under free fallen gatorade

If only we
crested without coffee sugar cream

If only we
rested the destruction being distant dream

If only we
blessed it for two weeks in a row I hear

If only we
missed it with the paradise exit so near

Maariv

In the early morning rage
a helpless quest
for ill-contorted shoes

In a daily afternoon’s wage
the lunge and recoil
at tied time bound to lose

In an often night of age
uneasy excursions
(psst—“snooze that stays the snooze”)

In the praying midnight tolls
a semi-smile believed
touching beauty of the muse