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Just South of Paradise


            Step back your Honor &
        Ask why, if you don’t mind,
Is the most unreported crime
In these United States of America

        Is it because judges weigh sexy dresses,
Come hither smiles and dark and silken tresses
That alert boys to Nature’s fundamental demand

“Miss Skank, even blindfolded Justice can see
That you’re a big legged country girl with silky hair
Followed by a beautifully proportioned derrière. 
Tell the Court how’s a man to behave acceptably
When you so sashay as you pass so seductively?”

            Step back Daddy &
        Ask why the perpetrator of the crime
Doesn’t top your list of promised retribution hits
Rather than your daughter
        (Who will later slit her wrist)
Who knows men share coffee, hookahs and conspire lies
Fathers and brothers multiply the heinous crime then hide
Their daughter’s or sister’s crime with an Honor Homicide

            Step back Shaykh &
        Ask why loved and respected
Women deserve to wear the fear laden form
Starkly black intent (To hide themselves within) as
Desert Arab tents, secure from strangely non-restrainable
Thus blameless men, naturally vulnerable to devils and jinn.
Please, Shaykh, hold a public seance for the forsaken
Ghost of the girl sentenced to death
By the hands of those whom she loved most.


    Remember when
Adam told God that Lilith was a skank
Had the nerve to think she held his same rank

When God saw that Adam had coerced her to leave
He cloned from Adam’s bone cage his Ribeye wife Eve

The Age of the Goddess ended when Lilith had to flee
Ribeye Eve assented to a slavish yoke, never being free

Adam flipped the Original Goddess Paradigm;
Goddess became Skank and God took Top Rank

From cosmic energies to those of blood and war
Because of an inexplicably eaten apple core?

A talking snake with a convincingly devilish tongue
He recruited Ribeye Eve for the ruse as she was so young

An echo of Adam’s soul, a reminder of Lilith’s demanded role
Before the ancient world reversed its heavenly pole

    Remember when
The Aztecs ritually sacrificed their timed out
Personated god & goddess, ripped out the beating
Human god’s heart, live eyes on dead ones;
                   decapitated the goddess,
Removed her skin then another
Priest donned her skin then brother priests
                 dressed him in the goddess’
Robes and sacred crown as the new Aztec Drag Queen
Priest then paraded through a celebrating town


Look ahead
The dreamt end may seem strangely out of time,
This too long endured silent conspiracy of rape,
Amidst the marriages of the blended and the gay
The lesbian, the transgendered and our new
Bounty of lovingly inventive families

Look ahead
There is a place just south of paradise,
Around the moral bend
            Where we’ve been
At least once. Before 
We lost our original
Cosmological paradigm

Look ahead
Where goddesses are known as
Some badass motherfuckers, able still
To punish in the great extreme or
Peremptorily elect to kill feckless bitch-ass punks
Pursuing feloniously misanthropic schemes.

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Twisted then trysted,
Got busted, became dismissive
Rethought finances,
Kissed and made up before
Additional lies realized,
Spoken with tearing eyes,
All you wanted to hear
Was me calming your fear
                                                      (Note to player: make that Robin call)
About where I was last night,
(The night before
Twenty year-old Robin came
Knocking at my front door
I got up to let her in,
Then hit it again
And again!)

Redux, as it were,
Reborn as a bedroom remix:
“I heard he had a style...
Strumming my pain with his finger”
(Did she really say that?)

Hung myself before you
On a tangled lie for alibis
Bogus story lines gone
Begging for nondisclosure
                                                  (Don’t forget that Robin call)
Deliriously posted
Crafted love notes
In the feathered folds
Of an archangel’s wings
                                                 (I mistook her for Robin)
An easy target of opportunity
For any NSA drone
No more secure
Than my App delirious cellphone

There’s that cute barista who’s always
    Tripping words from nowhere space
        Speaking in Seattle coffee tongues
            About nothing but what I want:
Her name again?        Hot Viente African Americano
    Yeah, I got your tip.    Less water and an extra shot.
            Got it. Right?

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Darken Their Harvest Sun

                              An Ode to George

When one people fall victim to another in war
Revenge’s shadow falls across the victor’s door

You must kill the sons of the bravest ones
You must forever darken their harvest suns

This is the transforming backbone of our tragic story
From marauding madmen to mythic tales of heroic glory

You must kill the sons:
Seminole Braves stumble drunk in the Everglades
Uniformed casino clerks with hybrid Anglo name tags

You must kill the sons:
Stylized Samurai coded symbols on Toyota autos
Recall two mushroom clouds darkening the red sun

You must kill the sons:
Sons of West Africa and islands along the coast
Pace inside invisible cages dripping from syringes

Possessed by the ghosts of hooded paddy rollers,
Pale faces in uniform and their shielded vigilantes

Believe in the expediency of this American tragedy
Older than the Good Ship Jesus and its slaver legacy

Bound now, tightly as yin and yang, the dark
Defines the light, while love defines the hate

This is the transforming backbone of a tragic story
From marauding madmen to mythic tales of heroic glory

You must kill the sons of the bravest ones
You must forever darken their harvest suns

An enemy with a lost harvests of brave sons slain
Becomes docile like a once fierce bull now on a chain

When the world’s power rolls into the hands of another
They will find your sons, they will smile and pretend

Then they will darken forever your harvest sun
They’ll convict and execute your last begotten one.

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The Bossman's Footfalls

Alone on top of a crowded Mississippi mound
Where the bloody ground still mumbles
Echoes of old bossmen’s quick and angry footfalls

The nighttime’s bone deep chill trembles
Recall the restive ghosts of souls, the ones 
Borne by this stand of weeping poplar trees

The burning cross and the hemp rope noose
Are physical metaphors with shared geometries
That extrapolate to jail cells, prison gurneys

With automated poison drips, urban schools
Rock cocaine, brown heroin and deadly myths
The prison-industrial lynching tree complex

From an African gorge to distant mountains
Then out of the caves and onto the steppes
They warred against the Others and named them

Themselves as well by what they saw: Caucasian,
Negroid, Mongoloid as even then they were enthralled
By a triangle of A and B and what’s between the two

Humans don’t make triangles but ladders
Rungs stretching from the mud of African gorges 
To the clay of Eden in the hands of an anxious god

Breeding his chosen people (after weeding his garden --
No more Lilith), he preferred ribs the next time
While Lilith got busy with the Negroid and the Mongoloid

The Divine Eden seals the order of the ladder’s rungs
The highest are the bearers of the myth, colored within the lines
Ascending from gorges through caves to condominiums

The rest is too fresh to require reinforcement
Gaze over your father’s shoulder and take it all in
The three rung ladder is cemented in myths

Matured to the chosen ones with Edenic roots
The closest friends of god, meant to do his work
Owners of the dominions and all who live within

Now the lynching poplars flower only naturally.
The hemp rope noose is closeted in the big house
While the theology of race hides in plain sight.

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CANNOLI IS ITALIAN FOR HEAVENLY (In case you don't speak it)

We nod silent faux smiles then inquire politely
About the day’s trivial pursuits (then back to ruing our own)
Expecting a slightly mordant touch as spice
For two very dry martinis that we bottoms up quickly
Hurrying to the Azzuri Café for heavenly Cannolis 

We bite our Cannolis and sip our green tea content
Our sweet rapture ended a night out well spent.

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There are lessons in the wind
Sailors have learned best
Never gaze eye to eye
The wind will cause your vessel to lie
As if in irons held firmly by its willing
Avoid the blunt force of the unseen eye
Let its force cross the prow, pack your sails
Dip your rail in the roiling caps
Let her romp as a mare in la mer
Free but bridled by thoughts
Nurtured as home.

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Morning Yunnan Gold Tea Ceremony

The morning’s steamed whistle  
Of a burnished copper teakettle
Broadcast its readiness to surrender
It’s fresh hotness into a glazed Brown Betty
To steep Yunnan Gold tealeaves’
Tips and buds in her warmed clay belly

Heated, sugar-dusted porcelain mugs
Hold Betty’s steeped love that birthed then
Elaborated a fragrant swirl of Yunnan Gold steam 
That rose slowly as a Balinese temple girl’s
Trance-ecstatic dancing hands lift dreams
Hopes, and forgiveness to a sky now bright

Steam wanes into the sun’s wheedling
Through twenty angled slants of Golden Oak
Strung together weathered louvered slats
Narrowing the midmorning rays to streams
Now mingled with rising steamed aromas
To chaperone fresh muffins and sweet rolls

My hand, made warm by your porcelain mug,
Jostles you to first eyes and dreamy mumbles
We share a tray of warmed muffins and rolls
Apple butter, jams, preserves and Valencia slices
Bunched dandelions and tossed rose petals 
We sip and bite and on Sunday we puzzle words.

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There rest placid lacrimal seas
Under the eyes' subtle folds
Twin reservoirs of the unredeemed;
Not the spillage from hard losses;
Nor the deepest mystery’s waterings

Salt water roils beneath the blues,
Sweet water flows over the joys
When the welling brims, the gathered begin
Their flow, the wept ones kiss first the lashes
Slow streaks wet line cheeks

Checked by shirtsleeves and handkerchiefs   
Before they resolve openly in air
Remembered by the shining lines
The dampened sleeve, the balled cotton hankie
And the seminal memories of losses and joys.

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Living with Goldilocks

Say what you will,
We are mere biological tubes
In one end and out the other
Goes the dead things we eat daily
While we profess in the midst of this
An intimacy blessed by the sky god’s one
Good son, our lineage is the truly divine one

Even as our sciences’ queries
Rend the sacred curtain to social cause ribbons
Revealing the wizard-less inwardness as koan

Say what you will,
We merely imagine ourselves
As remarkable beings
In this sensate world, tactile
Abodes for ghostly souls
Binary beings just as day has its brightness,
Thinking has its dreaming

I say what I will,
We are the carbon based bumpkin
Sweet spot residents of a Goldilocks zone
Helplessly spinning and orbiting
A floating ball of gas on fire
In a milky dense galactic way
Of being universally present.

We are billion year old carbon
With genius dreams that lifted us
From African trees to lush savannahs,
Flights to the moon with tickets to Mars
Spacious private estates to high rise tenements
Bows and arrows to satellite operated drones
We fabricate a world of meaning.

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I awoke this morning with a gargoyle in my bed
I rolled away, lit a joint and tried to figure out what I’d said.
I know she’s a sense of humor, that’s one thing on her side
Whatever got her ‘back up,’ I had hoped she’d let it slide

The gargoyle looked thirsty so I poured us both a drink
Mine cooled my smoky throat and gave me time to think

I carried my new lover with me to the breakfast nook
She sat there deadpanned with her nose deep in a book
I introduced my new bedmate as an attractive possible third
In our first ménage á trios; coolly she flipped my the bird

I told her that I planned to nail it to the bedroom ceiling
The bottom of the double-back beast would see the top’s feeling.
I know
I know

I know.
My need for knee-jerk repartee had brought me low
It’d be less than a week before she’ll pack her things and go
Yet in the back of my mind I knew I worked to make it so.