South Bound
I’m waiting on a sudden change of heart,
For that left turn stab,
Cutting gravel, hard throttle-
Change of heart.
I’m waiting,
For a screaming voice
Echoing through the station
Above the deisel moaning
Wait! Please! Stop!
I’m praying for a frantic,
Nick of time motion,
in my direction.
I am praying … and… the moment is passing
And even though i am
the last one on
she’s not coming
she’s not coming
She’s Not coming.
I’m already gone.
D
In the middle of the week,
I have ash on my cheek:
finger-smeared above my eyes
and applied by crying sweat-shake rasps
and gestures of sighs.
I thought, there’s nothing fast about forty days
or the pain of paying penance.
The loneliest bar on Marti Gras,
the night before, lodged apprentices of men
and hid between hills and coast
they toasted: killing the prey
before the day of repentance.
In turn, each apprentice and each toast
burned quickly the sickly and weak
til the burning passed
and finger-smeared on cheek turned
toasting into ash.
I used to know her heartbeat
and could pick it from a line-up;
if it drove past I could quickly
call its model
all gears and pipes and throttle.
All theives and thugs and apprentices of men.
I hear her heartbeat hurts and
quickly slowed passed the pat and pat
I knew was hers.
I think she thinks something burned to ash
and fast away she slowed.
I thought, I know you; I last;
and the ash only quickens
and apprentices become men
and if your heartbeat slows and even stills,
I know it still
and I’ll fix it.
—————-
David J. Gilbert
Black Vernacular
On the low though
FO sho do’ get dough
Young bro
Dodging feds and five o
Keep it moving pimpin
Closed mouth don’t get fed but no snitchin
FO sho do’ get dough bro
On the low do’
Make bread, take bread
Bake cake, up late
Rise early get more weight
Skate quickly off the scene
Hold heavy but look lean
Keep a team of six strong
Everyday means the same song
Hood rich but highly favored
Stay close to enemies
But love neighbors
Chase paper don’t chase cases
Keep connects of Cuban races
Smoke green supply dope fiends
If you must
With blow and angel dust
Never fuss
Keep your heat and head up
Never trust
Always ready to bust
In and out of state in rental whips
Stake chips keep steel clips
Cause niggas could trip
Colors in every hood
Realize its all good
Flood the block with white
Keep lookout boys with good sight
If he locked up send a kite
Remember droughts make money tight
Hide paper at auntie’s place
Just in case
White boys pull a kick door
Keep product under the floor
On the low do
Fo sho do’ young bro
Victor Johnson
Detroit churns out cars that we don’t need
to drive to jobs that we’d rather be
without,
but can’t quite escape plagued by doubts
that this isn’t the life we’re supposed to lead
but climb the ladder rung by rung
until you’ve hit the top and hung
your flag or yourself or burned
bridges that you wish you hadn’t crossed
in the first place ’cause now you’ve lost
your way but you say it was worth the cost
those 60 hour weeks, those business trips,
those office jokes you don’t quite get
deal with the politics and you’re set
you’ve reached the top and you have met
the goals.
Your reward?
A new car.
-zack-
Written in 2004.
Tired friend
Idling the evening traffic together
Our elbows smudge the driver’s door window
Scratching habitually at dry scalps
Quietly anxious
-hailey-
I tried to channel some of that David Hailey “I’m moving to Hawaii bitches!-screw civilization-screw the man” righteous anger.
————–
I’m afraid
we’ve been played.
While the others sprayed
about money made
on the wall street parade
with the stocks they trade
we were left to wade
through the masquerade.
And on this crusade
we could not dissuade
big brother’s financial aid.
Those cats managed to evade
our blockade.
Now when all is surveyed
of the lives laid
waste in the tirade,
those who betrayed
were merely displayed
at a promenade
to persuade
us that the congressional brigade
had rendered first-aid
but the knife blade
had filleted
to the bone.
And more dreams decayed
in the latest charade
and the best laid
plans are sometimes frayed
because all that glitters is not gold.
-zack-
He is old,
But not too old
For a booty call.
For when the ex-
wife (number 4)
Comes a knockin’
So drops his pants,
and so his money
goes.
Because her boob job
Is just too good
to ignore.
-snow-
the liars deal in cash
the businessmen in lies
the politicians in their promises
as the voters avert their eyes.
the holy deal in rumors
the preachers in their fear
the agnostics in their apathy
as the sinners drink their beer
cheers.
-zack-
she smiled the way children lie
cute wrong
approaching me
with unchildlike intentions
i’m married
whispering the words
bold nervous
she smiled the way children lie
aware of guilt
with unafraid intentions
i’m married
as well
calm deliberate
she smiled the way children lie
-vic-
I am in between steps
Dust from the foundations of the earth
Plume beneath my feet.
My luggage is in my left hand
Holding every earthly thing owned to me
Paper, ink, cotton, and shaped metal
Perfectly boxed in a case meant for suits
I own no suits, only a case meant for them
My right hand is out
Reaching for the last car of a train
The dust in my wake
Between these steps purposes diverge
Never let the left hand know
For what the right hand reaches
With an open palm it keeps its illusions
I own only space from heel to grasp
–
dhailey
Immutable as granite,
you the breaker of my heart,
immovable as mountains,
you from the start,
Geppetto of my soul.
-zack
Migration
Finding herself
She said
You’re lost
I whispered
No….. Missing
More
Than you offer
Her Reply
Distant
But moving
As she moved away
–
vic
I posted this on fb already but it is what I have been working on lately. I miss you all.\\ david
god these days
The hunter is in the blind
And along my way I come, I come
His hands, his breath are still
His heart a hungry panic
The sun is in the desert
For a hundred years I have grown there
Day by day its furious tongue has lashed me
For a hundred years, but tonight I bloom
God is busy these days
Sharpening the barbs of porcupine quills
Painting the shimmering camouflage of bleeding heart tetras
Producing perfect blossoms of poinsettia poison
God is busy these days
Setting the world on its steady axis
Shifting the fault lines of a news worthy earthquake
Marching mountains for a millennia across the sea
Commanding the moon to command the tide
God is busy these days
Too busy to be bothered with heaven and hell
While giving the lot of them
Time for such inventions
The shark is in the water
Loosening sets of teeth
Lapsing and merging, searching for the scent
And in a flash is blinded
By sunlight
Reflected from a school of bleeding heart tetras
The hunter is in the blind
Praying for forgiveness
And along my way I come, I come
Wordlessly whispering to him
“Take a life to live it.”
This is the glory of God, these days.
remembering before i met you.
he said you were the best anyone could ask for.
my feelings hurt, listed as second place, longing for first.
i didn’t understand friendship, and the healing that it could bring.
i didn’t understand your friendship with him, or the way it made him whole.
jealous only for a short time,
the friendship tighter than air magically remained non-exclusive.
impossible not to be a part.
-sarahthe
who are you?
face from my past
illuminated in the flickering of a late night chat
a reminder of things since lost
a remembrance of things I’d since hoped to forget
zack
mostly I remember,
when I dig through the photo stack,
the years when the good, the bad, and the mediocre
were all rolled up together,
when we didn’t know what the hell we were doing
or where we were going,
but neither did it matter,
because we remembered
in the good, the bad, and the mediocre
what it meant to search
and live and drink and study
and question and wade through the filth
and find ourselves clean.
zack
