Love Revolution

the little table

she had a little table
in her quaint apartment
in the corner
by the window
by the window
with the escape ladder

on it
a telescope
a microscope
and a crucifix

the telescope reminds me to look
beyond myself
and
to realize the minuteness
of my existence

the microscope
my grandness
the simplicity of life
and
to realize how fragile
both are

the crucifix
for purpose
and hope

…whether he is God or not
i know somebody
was willing
to die for love

soft poems

i’m tired of soft poems today
i want my words to
jump up and stab a racist cop
put on gloves
sweat and bruise and bleed
help a migrant pick a thorny crop
i want my words
to grab a brick and throw it strong
rearrange themselves
into a Nirvana song
i want my words
to make the black graves of
mississippi hum
grab a stick
and rape that drum
grab that gun
load it
cock it
sit in the hands of Che Guevara’s sons
i want no less
than stress
than a mess of muddy poems
feeding the minds of muddy homes
i want my words….
i want my words to be keys
to minds, to chests
to cells in jails
want them printed
on the rags in Molotov cocktails
i want my words
to flow and be off rhyme

i’m tired of soft poems today
i want my words to change the time
i want my words to change the time

baby, baby

i got a tattoo, i might get another
ink in your name, right under my mother’s

got a little job, got a little cash
you bring the sweetness, baby, and i’ll bring the brash

i’ve got me rhythm, that ain’t no jive
your momma had three children, i’ll give you five

don’t promise gold, no house on a hill
but grab the reins, baby, you about to feel the thrill

i’ll pull you in and hold you tight
if i got to beg, baby, i just might

gonna pull you close and talk you sweet
gonna wash out the blues and start a new beat

when the sun comes up, i’ll be there still
that deep deep hole’s about to be filled
don’t promise gold, no house on a hill
but grab the reins, baby, you about to feel the thrill

last street

what street
will be the last one
my casket rolls through

will it be long
and winding
or short—
a quick bump
here and there

who will drive my hearse
will they know my name

maybe it will be Alameda
or Montana
or a street that is dirt at this moment
like the home i’m headed to
will the sun be out
or clouds

will someone on the street
stop and point
stop and think
i wonder who’s in there
i wonder if they loved life
and lived it

i wonder too