The world is full of awkward mysteries

But none so complete

As the look in an older woman’s eyes

After having one, two, three

Four or more too many to drink

Twenty minutes before closing

At a cougar bar

And the look in her eyes

Tells me ask me no questions

And I will tell you no lies

And there is no small amount

Of mystery in her

But the

Clocks are ticking

And the

Drunks are drinking

With barmen and maidens cleaning

And we are nearing

Closing time

So without so much as a single word

With hints and squints

With the biting of our own lips

In non verbal cues

With only the most obvious of clues

Without so much as a single word

Speaking not in tongues

But in the silence of smiles

With our eyes

We decide

To leave mystery

To

Scooby doo

And

Angela Lansbury

Mystery

Only complicates things

She asks

So what you do

I figure we don’t have much time

And even less to lose

So why not be honest

I respond

Mostly things I regret

And she starts laughing

And I am doing my best

To keep her smiling

Keep her focus

Keep her standing near

Hold the rest of the world at bay

Tending to their own business

Their own drinking

Their own cleaning

Their own ticking

Their own hearts beating

Trying hold off closing time

Like trying to fight back the sunrise

Like trying to fight the age

That smears and lilts in her eyes

But in the meantime

She’s tells me

She’s a make up artist

I tell her anyplace anytime

She could work her magic

I could be her canvas

Paint me into something

Maybe a captain

Except my commercials

Would be more honest, more realistic

Captain uncalled for behavior

Captain misplaced anger

Captain what you think

You’re better than me

Captain nobody’s perfect

But then again what do you expect

At one thirty seven am

Captain mission accomplished

I kept her laughing

But she asks again

So what do you do?

I say in my defense

I hate that job

I hate it because

It steals my time

From that which I love

I hate it because it robs

Whatever time is called

Between youth and middle age

Destroying all in its path

Like what lays in wake

Of a some God forsaken

Brutal military campaign

I hate it because it kills all hope

I hate it because it makes me

Feel so

God

Damn

Old

She says you’re baby yet

I say in my defense

I have passion

I have poetry in me

She says really

Recite me a poem

Tell me a story

Imagine me into something

Other than what I am

Without a third mortgage

Not once remarried

Not twice divorced

Write me recite me

Into

Something not so old

Not so blue

Not so used

Write me

Recite me

Into something new

A blushing bride

With eyes full of life

And body full of youth

I say

In these lights

And in my eyes

You are a teenage beauty queen

Your whole life ahead of you

And you can paint me

Into whatever you need

Tall and lean

Younger still than I am now

But they are closing shop

So if you what to continue this talk

I suggest we head over to the parking lot

And I have no expectations

We’ll just see what happens next

Because the world if full

Of awkward mysteries

And wild things…

I most often regret

If I hear one more Black poet
Connect the words
“Remember,” “slaves,”
“Brainwashed” and “backwards”
To the words
“Smart money”
“Entrepreneurship”
And “respectable leaders”
I will have to sock them in the face.
If I continue to hear poems
About how we, the average person,
Are “so lost,” “greedy” and “backwards,”
In essence, saying that we are to blame
For our economic problems,
I will have to sock them in the face.
If I hear another poem
Spitting about how the real problem
With the world is patriarchy
And that war is driven by the male ego
With no financial interest
Of the world’s richest men and women
Taken into account,
I will have to sock them in the face.
If I hear another Christian poem
Telling good people that they’re going to Hell,
I will have to sock them in the face.
If I hear anyone of any religion
Be it in poetry, or otherwise,
Try to explain the socio-economic conditions
Of the Hell that we live in
By referring to Samsara, Karma,
An Original Sin in the Garden of Eden,
Fate, signs,
Or misdeeds,
Bad luck,
Maybe just failing to keep our heads up,
Or that we all simply didn’t work hard enough,
I will have to smack them in the face.

I’m also tired of tales of the wealthy
And how they’re just as miserable as all of us
And how that could be some kind of reason
To smile and simmer in
The pile of shit we’re sitting in
And let it all continue happening.

They’ll tell you that suffering
Builds character.
Let’s describe some of our character traits:
Lack of access to affordable education
Proper nutrition,
Healthcare, housing,
A fucking tank of gas,
Breakfast

Can’t afford
Vaccinations
Paid vacations
Desk jobs
No jobs but still having money.
Money to marry
Money to separate
Money for independence
Money without a landlord
Or a real estate agent, the bank,
Breathing down your neck.
Money for favors.
Money for placement, prestige
Money for counselors and therapists.
Money for the blessings of Billy Graham,
The Pope
A new age guru
A talk show personality
A swami, a monk, an imam,
Money to be forgiven and keep on living
With no sins to be forgiven.
Money for judges, trials, city councils,
For everlasting innocence.
Money for land, labor
Money to be protected by the army
And the cops.

No swollen bellies,
No lack of utilities,
No cold nights if it can be helped
No starvation
No life in trashbins, in blankets under an overpass
In tents, ghettos, slums, trailer parks, shanty towns.
Places where they call you a nigger,
A spic,
A chink,
A gouk,
An illegal
A whino, a bum,
A hick, a redneck, trailer trash, white trash,
Where you’re as good as trash
And yeah, the rich have it bad.

A fireplace,
A full bed with clean sheets
A bottle of brandy to drink all of your maladjusted
Rich family problems away.
Pills to take, food to eat, to recover from the hangover.

A tall can of malt liquor
Finally bought after hours of begging on a street corner
And then, later, return.
A headache and desperation in the morning.
There will be no recovery.

This is reality and it is global.
It is that of the rich and the poor all over the world.
It is beyond national borders and barriers
It speaks different languages
It is called transnational capitalist exploitation.
It’s in the paper, in Forbes magazine,
It’s what you see in the streets,
It’s what you see out in the country.

It’s plain to see.
So see it.
Before I have to sock you in the face
For writing another stupid poem.

Sometimes I’d like to write about transcendent beauty
Use a bunch of big words
But out instead comes a plethora of absurdity.
The mundane details of my life.
The mundane details of my life give it meaning.
I hope you can relate.
If you can, great.
If not, then fuck you
And the horse you rode in on.
Yeah, I hope that horse gets shot in the stable
Right between the eyes
Falls down instantly
When you go into town to get that new cell phone
You’ve been saving up for.

I hope PETA doesn’t sue me.

A round of applause, please
For that pointless angry story.

I find one stage after another
Waiting for dead-end claps.
This is my path.
See those hands locked together?
It feels like love.
I keep those hands in a locket
And open them with the pen
That hangs on the corner of my pants pocket
Ready to strike
Any time, any where.

Pop the cap.
Out come the insights
Predictions
Self-loathing
Dreams
Declarations
If you’re lucky, maybe even a few laughs.

Girlfriends were tired of this routine.
Found that up close,
I wasn’t all that interesting.
Said that I tried too hard to be entertaining.
Too many impersonations
Interogations
“Why are you acting like your friend?
You’re not him.”
She said to me in the bowling alley.
I couldn’t think of an intellectual way of bowling
When I sucked at it.

Wish I could be more assertive,
Willful,
Problem is, I’m not too skillful at anything practical.
I suck at real life.
I’ll admit it, I’m in a relationship with mediocrity
And I’ll be damned if I’m not committed.

In search of company
Friends and family
In bars and restaurants
Walking miles and miles
To fulfill another day’s wants.

Missing adventures and misadventures
And maybe even adventures with some Ms.s
Along the way.

I’ll see you in the best times of my life
On the road, ahead
In a quiet corner between random thoughts
And yesterday.

You are worth something to society.
You work to make commodities
In factories all over the globe.
You work to provide services
In restaurants, shops, and stadiums.
You work
For pennies of the real value
That you produce.
The real value
That fills the wallets
Lines the pockets
Trusts the funds
Of those you work for.

You consume
Commodities
And services
With your pennies
That collect into jars
That fill the wallets
Line the pockets
And trust the funds
Of those you buy from.
Your funds will decrease
With each and every increase
In productivity.
Each new machine made
To do a job better
(Or send it to someone
Who will do it cheaper)
Than you
Puts you closer to unemployment.
Debt, starvation, and death.
As a worker,
You are becoming obsolete.
As a consumer,
Well, you no longer have any money…
What good is someone
Who isn’t a worker,
And can’t afford to be a consumer,
To a capitalist society?

You are worth nothing to a capitalist society.
A capitalist world
Filled with men and women
World leaders
And bankers
Who fill their wallets
Line their pockets
Trust their funds
And have absolutely no reason to care
About anyone they can’t have work for them
Or buy from them
In other words,
People who can’t make them more money.
There will be no good-natured sacrifice
For the tired and huddling masses
To halt progress and productivity.
In the eyes of the capitalist
You are not worth more than a machine.
You never could be.

You are a human being.
Who needs
Food
Clothing
Shelter.
Who will proclaim
That you are worth something to society?
You will.
You will have to.

The minority of you may find your place
Working at a machine
Or building a new machine.
Building a damn of mud,
Arrogance
And naivete
To stop the flood
Of progress and productivity.

You will be replaced.

Have some faith in technology.

The majority of you will end up displaced.
People without
Food
Clothing
Shelter.

The future is up to you.
Workers of the World
And Soon-To-Be-Out-Of-Workers of the World,
The Future is Up to Us.

In silence.

The city answers back, loudly.

Its many noises greet my balcony.

The honking of horns,

The ringing of whistles,

The bang of tires upon uneven concrete.

Orange brick lit by yellow lights,

Ubiquitous.

Trees dig through walls,

Foundations,

Tall as buildings.

Clothes line metal gates.

Fire escapes…

Somewhere up high,

Where the moon is just the tip of a finger nail

And the North Star places location

On a compass for where I would sail

Away from the Chinese Navy song

That trails and booms

Through this city.

Fuzhou.

A coastal city.

I can’t see the coast.

The city is speaking to me tonight

In place of that distant sea.

It’s all so close.

Motorcycles zoom away,

Pass through the complex’s gate,

On to the city,

Downtown, with lights, bright lights.

Away from this quiet commotion,

Towards all of the action.

It’s happening.

The buildings hold still.

They keep me company.

Blue and yellow lights from windows.

Some lights poke through the foliage.

That one looks like a Christmas tree.

People move up and down

Stairs exposed, outside.

The people on those stairs, outside,

They’re as remote as lemmings.

Air conditioners adorn walls

Like old speaker boxes

While the Navy song still booms.

The city is speaking to me,

Loudly.

But I would follow the North Star,

The only star in the sky,

To find where you are.

This Westerner would follow course.

But now, in Fuzhou,

Somewhere out there

Would find you in a city Far East…

Can you hear the sound of the city?

Are you listening?

Is another man’s treasure.

If that be the case

Then I see a treasure hunter

Foraging in a dumpster

Every day.

X marks the spot

Where he’s got a bamboo pole

With canvass bags attached

Off to the side of the road.

He places mats on the road

For two puppies to lie on.

He treasures those dogs

Precious, invaluable

They are his.

Cast aside

Like the items in the dumpster.

Maybe those dogs were cast away like him.

I read today

That in the US

Animal shelters are having trouble

Getting humans to adopt black dogs.

Perceived lower, cursed.

There’s an organization

That advocates for those black dogs to be adopted.

Who will take it as their cause to adopt this man

Cast black dog by society

As so much trash in the dumpster?

Who will take that bamboo pole of his

Upon their shoulders?

How humane is our society

In Fuzhou, or elsewhere?

For there are treasure hunters nearly everywhere

Fuzhou, China

Retalaheu, Guatemala

Downtown Los Angeles

One need not seek far and wide

To find them

X marks the spot

Somewhere around your corner…

Somewhere by a shopping cart.

Somewhere by a dumpster.

If these men, women, and children are trash

Then how are the rest of us measured?

Here in America

A poor midwest kid

With stars in his eyes

Decides to heed the call of patriotism

Fight for all our freedom

Do his part to win

The war on terrorism

Run up on global Jihad

With a great big yee-haw

See whose left standing

So he enlists

And prepares and he trains

And he prepares and he trains

And he prepares and he trains

But when he gets there

He finds his guns taking aim

At the innocent

Mostly old men women and children

And his training taught him

Its us or them

So what then

Comes home on leave

Sees the town for the last time

With family and friends

Comes home to mothers house

Room just like he left it

In his uniform

He gets decked out

Shines his medal

Takes his pistol

Into his mouth

Prepares for the blast

And awaits the silence

Here in America

On the east coast

Or the west coast

Or anywhere with

Enough black or brown folks

To have a ghetto

Our boy never bought

Into the American dream

But he lives in the projects

And scopes out his prospects

And he wouldn’t mind being

The first in his family to attend college

So he enlists in the marines

From the halls of Montezuma

To the shores of Tripoli

What a great big world to see

With so many nice

People to kill

He comes back half alive

And half dead

And not just in the body

But in the head

And he cant find a job

And he cant keep his mind right

Long enough

To fight for the benefits promised him

He enlisted

To get his mom out

Of roach infested tenements

But now he would be

Happy just to get back in

Another homeless veteran

Up here in America

The land of the free

The home of the brave

First world democracy

The first world

The free world

We hear in the first world

We got freedom

And in the third world

They got free trade zones

Where first world corporations

Can exploit the labor of children

But take a good hard look

At the real face of American poverty

See the places where

Those factories used to be

Gary Indiana, Detroit

Philadelphia, Youngstown

Then see luxury mansions

The division of wealth in

The united states of America

Is greater than it is in Rwanda

Go down to fifth street

Downtown los angeles

See the Mellon bank

See skid row

And you tell me where’s the justice

We talk about third world countries

Well then what the fuck is this?

We got more empty housing units

Than homeless

Here in America

Where it is a crime

To take shelter from the cold

Where the destitute

Have to choose

Between surviving

And breaking the law

Where empty apartments

Are under armed guard

Here in America

Grandpa is sick

And you’re hoping the doctors

Will do all they can for him

Well you really should

Have planned for this

You should have worked harder

Or maybe worked smarter

So you could have gone to Harvard

Maybe have been a Rhodes scholar

Maybe then you could afford

The best modern medicine has to offer

But you didn’t

But don’t worry

Medicare will cover a hospital bed

A handful of meds

To keep him still through the night

Oh you wanted them to help

Actually try to keep him alive

Boy you must have stars in your eyes

This is America

We don’t do that here