The poet in the dark seeing phantasmagoria
tyger, eyes burning bright
forges anvils
out of the cold metal of blacksmiths
with whom I share not a single drop of
black ink blood
My blood runs red
Red sun, fire boiling on distant planets
Red communists with red roses tucked behind their ears
Red running from your lips sucking popsicles
on Sunday mornings,
cause in the afternoon I can't come out to play
Let it flow like blood ink,
from a pen that is not my own,
it belongs to
black beat
men
who sing their rhyme.
Life swings into my step as I cross the dance floor
where mandolin playing men sit in orange trees
eating ruby red grapefruits like three pigs
suckling.
Juice sticking on their hairy little chins,
big bad wolf hunts them down like Rin Tin Tin,
K-9 cop catching Renegade stagecoaches and train-robbers.
Squealing tracks. Iron
hisses on steel,
hisses in August steaming noon.
High noon yellow hangs
above cartoon ducks.
You'd better draw varmint, 'fore I shoot.
He's hunting rabbits today in the woods.
Got his coon skinin' dog holing up
foxes
best friend hound, howling at the barn owl moon.
Goodnight moon, goodnight mouse.
Snatched by talons of raptors long extinct.
Join the fewmets left for archeologists
searching for the lost belief in medieval goddesses.
Worship witches at midnight with
Owl,
Dolphin, Wolf.
Who are you to say you don't understand me?