thrown under the bus

nowadays all she does is whine about her bodily pains,

but when you were left alone, 

she stayed drunk, prowling the bars

days on end, 

oblivious to the emotional wreckage left

on your chest, like a hot iron

melted through the tender heart of a 10 year old,

the open wound to the 


cauterized shut

too soon,

without even leaving any open flesh

for the pain to be released,

seared closed with the shame, pain, and false pride of generations,

sealed in for years like a safety box of magnets,

pulling you towards anything and everything self-destructive

in a desperate search for some morsel of hope,

that the next christmas dinner might be more than 

knocking on the doors of neighbors, being lucky enough to be

asked in to share a holiday meal, 

and an attempt to be noticed for something other than the burden

you were to her deep and fervent longing for 

the escape, into smoke filled rooms,

that reeked with the heavy, putrid smell of week-old frying grease,

cigarettes, and hairspray, that became one of your main

reasons for going to live with your dad--

other than the day she up and left for california,

a 50 dollar bill to substitute her mac and cheese, dribbled with 

one and a half inches of ashes off a pall mall,

only to be less than reluctantly welcomed by him,

and a stepbrother who most always was 

notably more worthy of better dirtbikes, nicer clothes 

and a much more frequent pat on the back 

for a job well done, 

that most often wasn't.


a dollar for him and quarter for you, along with the bottom bunk,

that smelled like pee from all the years he wet the bed,

only ever good enough for sloppy seconds--

and then there was brownie,

poor broken down swayback, with skin infections,

baldspots and degenertive bone disease,

in light of your brother's black stallion stud,

as if the 6 inch scar on the back of your leg wasn't enough 

from your father's drunken rage with a 4 inch hunting knife,

and the glass from the window that left it's souvenir the night he threw you

across the room, all before the age of 14.



i may have shot that horse between the eyes too.





11:37 PM 6/26/2013





Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a poem about a kid.





Maybe You Should Have Taken the Bus?

The santa claus sombrero watches over the helium head heart ballon,

it drinks softly through the straw into deep empty wine bottles,

and i'm the only one up,

the only one who hears the bugs sing and crawl,

the only one who hears the night train strain and stall,

fall into gravitys-gone nosedive,

how to survive the narrow-neck summer,

I guess just tip back,

Into the greatest dark of yet unknown,

tip-back and sit in a chair not fit for rocking,

it will be a bump-bump ride,

don't fasten any seatbelts and resume smoking ladies and gentlemen,

the pilot has been drinking all day and your stewardess's have been fucking all night,

Enjoy the ride,

the plane will be crashing in approximately an hour,

Thank you for flying the friendly skys with us tonight,

the peanuts are uncomplimentary and each passenger will be assessed a nut-tax based on the state-fly-zone policy and allergy-reactive population zone-tax,

Maybe you should have taken the bus?

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Ode to ETS

did i ever tell you how much
i like riding the bus?
especially on a winter morning
primordial dark
insulated from the city in warmth
and shadows

i like to let the rhythmic whir
stroke my ears
coffee and whiskey in my belly
with eyes half-closed
sharp edges and hard yellow lines
shimmer and pulse

i like to slip in and out
of sleeping
we slough off layers of the city
like dream images
only half-remembering the route
taken three hundred times or more

i like knowing and not knowing
faces in blue light
we know each other's secret
morning ritual
knowing looks filter through
anonymous space

i like feeling that this route
could last forever
always moving on a boundary in time
not arriving anywhere
and did i ever tell you how much
i like riding the bus?

No Room In The Inn And Other Equity Poems



The servant of the wealthy had tired weary feet.. and the busdriver said..."in the back
of the bus.. take a seat"

The hired hand of the wealthy had a tired weary back..
.. the mansion owner said..
" sleep tonight.. in the hayloft.. in the barn..
in the back".

The black musician traveling around
came to an unknown strange new town
and was told.. to take his frayed
carpet bag.. out of the inn

The homeless man came to the door..
"no we can't help you"
.. said the church secretary
.. to the stranger

The pregnant woman came to the wayside lodging..
" we have no room in the inn".. said the
"go down the road.".
and she did.. and placed her new born baby in
a strawfilled manger.

Each filled the place he was assigned
with a new and holy light.




The reflecting waters..
around the Jefferson
Memorial.. are your liquid


as seas receive slaps
without responding
so you absorbed
over and over
.. the humiliation
of waiting on your lover's
children.. while they
treated you
as Flora
and Isabella
you watched as he showered
his white children with love
ignoring in public his
mulatto progeny
you heard the news
of Jefferson's White
House dinners..
as you were kept out
of sight in Monticello
...he broke your heart
again.. as he broke his
promise.. to free your
children.. 200 of
your fellows were auctioned
off in slavemarkets..
... you grew tired of
reflecting him..
in your next life
you mirrored kinder
as your waters flowed
past the cold marble




"Four and twenty blackbirds
baked in a pie"
the old English sing..
of Malcolm X and
Martin Luther King
Rep Mickey Leland
and Secretary Ron Baker
of Ken Saro-Wiwa
and Steve Biko
and all the other martyrs
to the racist power structure


Even so like a party
person springing up out of
a vegan birthday cake..
they all spring back to us
in new forms.. with resurrected
and multiplied power




Oh Martin


Sometimes your voice was the thunder..
Sometimes it was the falling rain.
Always it burst our hearts asunder
and made them vibrate.. empathic in pain.


(to all inspired by the
life of MLK)




Rosa Parks refused to give up
her seat on a US bus.. and the
world was changed.


Mohandas Gandhi was thrown
off a train in South Africa,
and the world was changed.


Lee Archer was moved from a
general to a nonwhite
traincar in Washington DC.. before
he became a war hero*.


Neem Karoli Baba was taken
off a train in Neem Karoli India
and the train could not move.**




They sing White Christmas
in the stolen White House
.. their guestlist includes
.. General Tommy White
(62 million richer from
.. they send
their ambassador
to the UN
dominated by
4 nations
predominantly white....
and they invite
GOP governors white
who execute black
much more than white
.. they invite Supreme
Court nojustices..
who have executed
more black prisoners
than white..
.. they invite Ashcroft
.. a racist imprisoner
and Missouri executioner
of nonwhites
and the Confederate Museum
in Texas.. with its
money from George Bush
and the Bob Jones Univ
with its visits from George
Bush.... he
has sealed the papers
of the library of Ronald
Reagan.. who gave a code to
Mississippi whites..
he called his racism
"states' rights"..
George Sr. will be there
.. his Willie Horton
ad campaign
broadcast hate of nonwhites
They'll have Jeb
who disenfranchised nonwhites
.. and General Tommy Franks
who bombed from a distance
as if he were playing
a video game




His will became law's
as William Wilberforce
was the driving force
behind ending British slavery
in history's river course.




For a time
the falling snow
clouded the
of the morning light
but then the clouds
melted away
and then snow white
multiplied the
of the morning light


(to Richard Pryor.
one of the billions
of victims of a
racist world)




Nelson Mandela
Nelson Mandela
your name is a mantra
which invokes great
Nelson Mandela
Nelson Mandela
your face: a mandala




Bogus ballots
backed by bullets
.. and belligerent
bullies .. who
want our baby boys
body bagged in Baghdad
... for the buillion
of billionaires

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