no toasts and flowers

for mohammed and maria,

none for john and robert ,

or father tom and sister jane,

and never jennifer and kate.

and jethro and jamaica

will surely burn forever.

however there's a corner

of verona in every town

and an alley back

behind it where

clandestine lovers

make plans and promises

and fornicate

before the swords

and ugly words emerge

to scourge and vilify,

and test their courage

in the public eye

and the tulsa tongues

begin to deeply savor

all the juicy flavor of the stories

passed from phone to phone

about what a certain minister

has been doing with his brother's wife.

if that goes where it looks like it's going

i don't expect we'll be throwing any rice.

and by the way, i heard

that a salt and pepper couple

-if you know what I mean-

have been seen performing acts

that would make a porn queen blush

i have it on good authority

that every tuesday night

they go at it in a car

parked out behind that bar

on county road 18.

Grace

In the old man's mind's eye

he saw his faith as like

a broken stained glass

window in the church

where he had learned

comforting psalms as a child,

when his kindergarten innocence

was still intact but cracking. 

His grace.

insubstantial as a moth

disappearing

in the altar candle's flame.

He found comfort -sometimes-

on rainy weekday afternoons

drowsing in a back row pew

sheltered from the latest news.

Sunday services were too much.

Too much goodwill, too much love

which he found difficult to reciprocate.

But he loved the music, so

he tried to be invisible

wrapped deep within his overcoat,

joining the joyous songs softly

a ventriloquist would be proud.

He always left

before the service ended,

found his favorite bench

in the park across the street

where he could sit unnoticed

as the elderly often seem to be,

a fragment of the landscape

like the pigeons and the elms.

Ain't no cure

Jamal was pissed.

insisting to his sister

loudly on his Samsung,

-build the wall, build the wall.

His interview had gone badly

and he suspected

that the manager, Mr Garcia

was holding out the position

for some damn cousin

up from some god damn

fuck'n Burritoville

like the three senoritas

he saw working the register

and the sandwich counter.

He glared at the rest of us

waiting for the bus

like he didn't care who

was listening.

Maria and Meifeng

stared at the ground.

Joyce, the transit Inspector

the one who looks like

a caramel hip hop dream,

leaned up against the window

outside the new Philz Coffee,

rolled her eyes, curled her lip,

caught my glance with a sadly

knowing nod as if to say,

What world does the brother

wanna be livin' in? walled up

like a whites only country club?

This Trump bullshit is getting thick.

what ever happened to the underground

where are the heirs

of the demimonde?

the emblematic hair,

chopped or cropped

or mohawk spiked,

when dreadlocks

belonged to rastafarians

instead of humboldt state

or berkeley posers.

when tattooed sleeves

were the inky terrain

of sideshow freaks

and jailbirds.

and the underground

spoke to itself

with xeroxed 'zines

about the sounds

and scenes,

and mark pauline

reanimated mummified dogs

with robotic limbs

and built infernal machines

that spit fire and bowling balls

and the abandoned breweries

were squats.

where art and music

happened to happen

and a lukewarm can of bud

could be had for a buck

in a basement club or loft.

and we went out

to dark corners and alleys

with a stack of posters,

a bucket of wheat paste

and a brush to claim

a vain resistance

to the encroaching wave

of homogenized life

and culture.

before the signs and signifiers

were semi-digested

and re-projected

as an infinite spew

of available lifestyle

selections.

and nothing was permitted

but much was tolerated

in the shadows

and the cracks.