(after Isaiah 63:2-6)
Why are your shoes so red
Like those of a man who treads grapes?
“I tread out a vintage alone.
The people were not with me,
But I showed them my anger
And trampled them with my rage.
Their life-blood ruined my pants
And my clothing was stained.
I had planned a day of vengeance.
My year of achievement had arrived.
When I looked, no one was there to fight.
I stared the people in the eye,
But no one offered their son.
So my own arm brought a draft
And my own rage filled the trenches.
I showed the people my anger.
I made them drunk with my rage.
And trumpeted my glory to the heavens.”
Bullet in the head
Never lived long enough
To feel good about being dead
Damn you, Edward Arlington Robinson
And your sour explication
Damn your meter and rhyme
And your twisting knife
O sweet jocularity
that languishes in the hearts of poets
Buried deep beneath
starched collars and smooth shirts
the meth heads who care for mother
took over when the Chicanos were deported
i never doubted their good intentions
or the smile(s on their faces)
when they learned
their key unlocked everything…
you dont need’ to be straight
to help someone use the
toilet it might even help
to be other wise
in the end its a
shoulder to lean on
unless they forget to show
up for work