Frodo must have looked back
on the Shire
on the edge of Hobbitown
and thought “Man,
I am far from home.
I am on the crest of a fucking mountain.”
Home is where the heart is.
We keep the memories of Mary and the lamb,
Mother by the fire as we clung by our mouths to the bottle.
I hear Mr. Romney used to hit people.
His political futurehead would detach
“Don’t Step Over The White Lines!”
and they would fall to the floor
with red rhododendrons on their cheeks.
Soul Vocals are rising up on the tide.
Harlem from the distance is an egg custard.
Its thick shell rises up around a depth of gold
The gold glow of community
Comfortably nestled in the warm night
By thousands of skyscrapers and fortifications.
“Do you know what it would mean if we lost Harlem?”
President Obama was frantic on the phone.
We lost Harlem anyway;
a second term in the sunlight
could not stop the watchful Golden Eyes of Mitt Romney.
Harlem was safe in the realm of its art
Not the rebellious Harlem of yore
The one of freaky jazz and women dancing
On tables in the templates of fine loft restaurants.
It was a far cry from the rudimentary Haarlems of yore.
It was thousands of fierce eyes preparing for battle.
Do you know what a battle could be?
On these streets illuminated by glowing neon signs
An electric flash can rapidly illuminate the silhouette of a street fighter.
The hulking silhouettes
Of villains heading home for the night.
There was a casino-like air to these apartments
As thin as shotgun houses but decked out in red velvet.
They were thick with the smell of cigarettes
And the sound of Ragtime.
I’m High and Listening to SEXXX DWARF! This slap Kills! Soft Cell Only On 106.Never!
A skull nestled snug from the rain inside an alien lighthouse, and PIRATES WILL CONQUER (presumably accompanied by a clap of lightning).
Fuck Mr. Romney He is a Bumbled Ass! Hit Me Up for a Link to a Link to a Link to a Manual Salesman of Tijuana Bible Dealers.
Puta Madre (a sombrero-eyed robot in cold rainpaved stone)
At the base is a pile of skulls and crossbones,
rain-soaked Pamphlets dropped by those peaceful planes in the sky.
Red searchlights peruse the claustrophobic ruins of the City
skulking between old archways and unused boulders
piercing ancient carvings and making them shine with crimson.
Here are Four Different Siren Sounds:
I could hear each in the night.
One was a red trill of urgency on wings.
One was the low tremor of an airship.
One was the frantic sound of a tragic fire engine.
One was for night delivery.
I gingerly placed my hand on the grime
Wiped away the filth like hardened tears
and read the accounts of the hardened culture.Posted in truth