Too Quiet

In this country
sons are born and sons are dying
in streets, in prisons, and in wars.
This country is too quiet,
so quiet, that the truth gets buried.

Why are the sons in the streets?
Why are they so poor they need 
to rob, steal, and kill?
Why are they so desperate to escape
this life with booze, drugs, and
instant gratification?

Why are the schools, teachers, and
families not given the support to help
the sons succeed?
Why are the rich given government 
handouts to amass more wealth at 
the expense of poor families, sons,
and daughters?

In this country 
no one wants to hear the truth.
This country is too quiet,
so quiet that the truth is buried.

*

Doors

Doors open at 7pm.
Songbirds sing all day long
10-dollar cover charge at the door
Songbirds do not charge one dime Dirt and dust cover
The soles on the feet of the poor
Being unable to afford the show

They settle for the birds that sing
For them outside the door all day long

The feet of the poor need
Socks and shoes, ointment for 
Blisters, dryness, and sunburn
Something for the hunger

A room to rest their tired bodies
Some still dance on tired feet
Songbirds sing for them at no charge
The door will close at 2am
*

New Suit

New suit
Same me
Nothing
Will change

New suit
Same me
It fits
Barely

Haircut 
Fresh shave 
About
Time now

Same me

Just so

You know
My friend

New suit
Same me
Let’s go
Out now

Same you
Same me
Like it

Should be

*

Here We Are

Here they come.
They know my name.
They see me.
I am their prey.
Here they come
To take my voice.
Their masked mugs 
Are all I see.
My time comes.
The masked men come
Like mad dogs.
These masked men,
A flock of them,
Will banish 
My rights. I watch
Them burn with
Rage. Behind them,
The moon shines 

On. Here they come.

Here we are.

Born at the Museum

I know your name.
Weren’t you born at the museum?
You came out of a painting.
A brush and oils created you.

You lived in a boathouse.
At fourteen you used to
like eating coconut meat.
Weren’t you born at the museum?

I hardly recognize you.
The wind tossed your hair around.
You came out of a painting.

The museum is closed on Holidays.
You lived in a boathouse.
That is my memory from childhood.