Tools of destruction
When the wall’s already down
Below the belt punches
From the opponent on the ground
Your stomach, not your gut
Is pushing from your side
And you wonder, is this the theme
Of the park’s last ride

Twisted hair and misfit contours
Dicken’s ghosts of now, then and later
Is this the direction you want to be heading
You quit the brick building but kept on digging

Now into bedrock below the reservoir
Searching for shoveled fragments of Eden overturned
(motion out of addiction)
With no chromium dominion to be found
Just masks, clouds and clowns down here
Synthetic paint and gray moisture
Loose, unordered
Without the discipline from earlier

Your opponent has gotten back to his feet
The figment is standing in the center of the ring
The referee looks the other way
This sort of fight
Is supposed to be sloppy
And no one leaves until he (or you)
Accepts defeat

If you don’t know what you’ve got
Be careful where you set your shot
Because a golf club from Sunsplash
Makes a poor nine-iron
A hoe’s a bad screwdriver
And a whore’s only good as a host.
If the bitch got back,
She’s probably got bacteria.

And if you still need a shot
We have an eleventh-hour deal
On a Captain Morgan handle
A walkout sale
From the local grocery store

A ferry ride away, you can marvel
At rocks clashed on tectonic plate lines
Its tension keeps us here
It’s stress holding us together
And whoever gives in first
Loses grounds to the other
And if you’re sideswiped,
I’ll get the space I wanted
And your hotspot will take a new direction
Forming new mounds, new islands

As the fog envelopes all of San Francisco
Except the executive offices
And water is displaced under the bough
Ask yourself, how will you take action
In your one moment of greatness
If at the slightest air resistance, you bow down
And if you manage to keep your back straight
Will you still be holding
That bottle, that bong
Will you attribute it
To an intoxicated state
And waiting patiently,
Passively, for your turn

If all you’ve got
Is a plastic golf club
And tarnished lungs
Will you still take action
Or will you follow suit with Samuel
Thrust into a moment for greatness
And choosing to be
Mediocre.

We are Cain’s children
On trial
For crimes we have forgotten
Murdered brothers
And marks of survival
Lives damned
Over rejected sacrifices
But that’s the way
This god plays
I guess.
A god of shepherds
Not farmers
Not our god
But dead brother’s
And now it’s him
And us remaining.
Yes, we are Cain’s children
In a world designed for Abel
But our impostor sins
Will be rewarded

Da da de da de da da. Da da de da de da da. Da de de dadedade de da. So off it goes and off I go. Real and free, but now its pressing keys again on a black machine. A black man on a black machine surrounded by more black men on machines surrounded by more blacks waiting for all of them to stop being machines. Real. Free. One machine calls out “Real. Free. Go. Now.” But they’re still just keys. De da de de de dee da. They’re still just keys. Black and white keys for black me and a black crowd and one less-black man. A teacher. Over-comer. Overpower-er. Vietnam soldier. Middle class ass living by church goers. De dum dum de da dum. Brother.
The keys are streets and blocks and houses somewhere a little better. The next one further just a little better. Just a touch and dee dee de duh. Sour and vile and wrong. I have to play my way out of here. Cool and warm at the same time - like heroin. Duh da dee de da duh. Better, feeling good. Here it is. There he is. Brother. My place and my power. My stink not his better-than-you unresponsive stare. He’s got wonder. Real wonder; an interest. In what? In me. In what I’m doing. It’s real. Free.
Heroin in the blood stream. Real. Free. Warm and cold at the same time. Mother’s dead and a funeral. A funeral for me, who I am, can be, will be, definitely, I’m all insecurity. Heroin in the blood stream. Da de dee da da. Real. Free. No not free, not me. The stink’s still here and so is my brother, telling me where to go, how to be, all with such certainty. Mother’s funeral and he’s scorning me, telling me no to the Navy as he goes back to Vietnam, dictating me overseas. Da da da de dee de dee da da de-a.
But there’s the fear, the discomfort in his eyes. Holding onto notes being played by something else. Handcuffs on my wrist, drink spilling on his shirt. Panic attack. React. “Bring it back” the bass is calling, but my brother; he too is reacting. Bring it back to him. Da dee dee da duh, tambourine panhandling, heroin trips in funeral kitchens, children at school, his children, us as children and then heroin. Dead fathers and mothers. A better place, but still here stuck in play. Dee dum dee deee. De dum. Miscommunication, lack of communication, finding ourselves torturing each other, still brothers. A better place. Now, find it, make it, play it. Pure communication. His soul and mine. His drink on my machine quivering. His soul and mine quivering. Together. Da da de da da. The song ends and our eyes meet. He’s still listening.

The fuel in the cotton balls dried up a while ago
But they were still striking steel against flint
And all the human contact was a deception;
A transition to get intimate with another cigarette
Until the scratched stone finally fractured
And when they spun the spark wheel,
even the click had gone.
-
And you say you came to enjoy
Not destroy
But I knew it would come to this
-
Had the cigarette lit
Their nerves wouldn’t have hit the redline pitch
Anxiety wouldn’t have turned to adrenaline
And the beers may have been sufficient
But instead, a kitchen knife was drawn
and they were left with two beers
two chairs and one knife
and he laughed
-
Oh, I came to enjoy
Not destroy
But you knew it would come to this.

The language
Of cigarettes is the
Quietest I have known
But have not heard

It ignores the ears
And engages the tongue
Making its way into the cage
That holds the heartbeat
Slow and soothing
As it reverberates the jazz rhythm
It was raised on

It is the pocketable soul of the city
Made at the intersection
Of greenery and machinery
Only alive when it is burning
Readily communicating
To anyone who will pause
And listen to the taste
Of its wafting message,
You are here
And always will be

The language is more sophisticated
Than that of an Englishman
It speaks in opioids
Turning manmade words
Into natural sensations
Sultry, calming,
Comforting, relaxing
Home again for Christmas, nostalgic,
Endorphin

The air it speaks
Is the rocking of a mother’s arms
For those who no longer fit
But still bristle at the world’s
Lack of softness

When all else has fallen
To the distance
Its gray words
Need only a spark
To be immersed
With the faithful,

Who stand against walls
Flicking ashes
Like rosary beads
With nothing else
To christen

I syringe my eye
But the junk’s residue
Does not reduce.
The hole fills in
Consistent with the suction
Of the needle
And I wonder
Why I attempt
To plant my support beam
In the sand.
-
But the feeling
Of feet hitting pavement
And pushing away the ground
Of burning leaves in my lungs
And leaving only ashes
Of taking forbidden fermenteds
And turning them into moments
Of pleasure
-
I’m not digging for the hole;
I’m digging for the sand
In the shovel.