Suburban Religion

from venice to chichen itza
you entertain us
look at us asleep in your footprint
(and here is a toe
and a heel
the vibrance and life
of the dirt)
turned around
It glowed so bright but wouldn't
shine outward
it stole the gods from sanskrit
india's peace
it cut them up and boiled them into soup
healed up
the wound from where beliefs were torn
reopened. Bled.
scalpels constructed with a westerner's fortune
chopra's diamonds.
diminished a people so marginalized.
ashes to dust.
these killers of god are growing
taking what little is left,
a bigger existence,
hatred is easily marketed
you don't ask questions, you don't answer them.
Sheep shearing sheep,
the wool piled in banks, cascading.
turned around
from vegas to paris
we like to entertain ourselves.

Falling Leaves

I'm sure it comes as no surprise,
someone would write to you.
It's definitely controversial,
and just as much taboo.
But I love you.

I heard you when you sang "forgive me"
or when you scared the crowds in Illinois,
by proclaiming what everybody there had had in mind.
But you sang those ancient songs, with such
conviction.
I could have sworn you told the truth.

As hard as you said relating was,
friend, you were there.
to share.
but time is full of new,
those who think they can escape
need only look at you.
To see the truth.

If it's discretion that you seek,
to understand hypocrisy.
I'm afraid I can't help you.
I don't see too much of me.
As I faintly disappear,
between the sins, the love and fear.

You can say I'm a shit talker.
I would probably agree.
But I've never sang those hymns off key
dishonestly.
I'm on an airplane headed south,
with a guitar and a running mouth.
I don't really listen,
except when I can tell, right then,
that I'll benefit from it.

I've never felt like I'm losing a friend,
whose not even dead.
But the longer I lay here,
the weaker I feel.
I know I can't stop what time has planned.
the way we progress,
or misunderstand.
But, if you want,
I'm here to talk,
or maybe start a band.

MCMLXXXIX

Moving
Closer
Masks
Longing
X
X
X
I ((((don't))))
eXist.

Every Bird for Himself.

Look at all this food,
oh boy don't it look good.
A silent bite of bread to take
my mind off of this long flight.
And seconds from the feast,
I hear their cavalry arrive.
A thunderous army of black feathers
The dark cloud begins its dive.
But here's my own batallion.
The gulls from distant shore.
Swoop down for my defense
But they'e never looked that way before.
Eyes green,
fixed.
On what there is so little.
How can we share.
Not half a loaf of bread,
we're thousands of beaks
who need to eat.
Not enough is there.
And as the black clouds struck the white,
I heard the same cawing, clawing fight.
Nature's heart exposed in war,
my comrades fierce,
the blood the gore.
Spiling on the pavement, and puddling beneath
the bread.
The white and black are now met with
robin's red and the jay's blue.
The sky, the sidewalk are equally pallettes of
a violent incarnated hue.
I make a move but see his eyes.
a crow with purple chest,
his beak, his teeth, his build his size.
Am I to risk my life, my death.
for this tiny piece of bread.
It looks so good and such a ruse,
maybe that purple is a bruise.
And the light is playing tricks
on my laterally faced eyes.
But to my surprise he claimed the bread
and I felt claws press into my head.
I'm looking to the side
the pavement lays beside.
My bleeding feathered body.
My selfish raptors death.