Cipher

The words spew out with
substance and urgency
unaimed like the wrath of volcanoes
flow continuing to the sea,
becoming islands.
The fog, the acrid stench
of sulfur amalgamated
by the steam of
vaporized salt ocean death
smoke from living moving earth
an onslaught of stimuli
fills your head full, too full.
You cannot breathe.
This air and such heat
brings a not previously encountered
level of consciousness,
sleepy droning,
amazed.
You dive in dreaming of ice cubes
and lemonade
before the splash.
“Time’s up” says the judge
and I hand you the sweatiest,
warmest,
most spit covered microphone
you have ever seen.




Strays

My Mother’s floral-print heart
and hatred of neglect
forced her to wage peace,
as a denim-vest wearing Sister Of Mercy,
ensuring we always had an extra plate of Hamburger Helper
and an empty couch,
or chair, or blanket on
the floor for battered women and
their children,
runaways,
and good kids gone bad.
These transients became Aunts,
Uncles,
Brothers,
Sisters, or
Cousins.
Scraping and scrimping
what was left of our foodstamps
and clipping coupons to make
a cauldron of oatmeal
with powdered milk,
or sunny-side-up eggs from the coop
with fried spam,
we fed the Bangladesh
of our neighborhood.
Urchins orphaned by crack cocaine,
we washed their clothes by hand
while their teenaged parents
stole Betamaxes.
Baking Loaf upon loaf
because we could not afford
the thin squares in bags
that most people called bread
I took to school a 3 inch hunk,
smeared with the guts of a passion fruit
from a wild vine ,
that the kids whose families had cars and shoes
laughed at.
They loved their Nintendo,
but would never know the joy
of having pigs in your yard
or tending the garden
where the beans
that would be next week’s chili dinner grew.
Even at our most destitute,
we still had much to give,
conjuring 100 Dollars
to get Josh’s guitar from the pawnbroker,
the black Stratocaster knock-off
that his mother, no stranger to
the abortion clinic
had put there to apportion
a day’s supply of Crystal Meth.
I did my share to help,
stealing my clothes from the Salvation Army
or selling my beloved books to schoolmates
to buy a KRS-0NE tape
or new inner tubes for my bike.
My Mother is a Libra,
her entire person bearing the icon
of Blind Lady Justice’s scales,
she has lived a life of
giving and love
and when she overcomes the Cancer
that eats her brain
and has sucked her teeth out
with the help of the Chemotherapy
that has sucked her hair out,
she will resume giving until gone,
consumed by the grace and mercy
that drives each little decision,
retired from Active-Duty
to Heaven where
she can be the Child instead of
the Warrior parent,
financier,
tailor,
teacher
and anchor to
The broken children,
Strays that worshipped Tupac Shakur
and whose parents
resented the burden
of their existence.