i.

let's give pakistan money
to nuke india.
never a higher mountain than trash.

the Western world needs this to happen,
both are a problem,
but one more populated than the other.

looking for a job lately?
there is so much to be said for colonization.
india says everything.

india amazon selling bottles of cow ****,
either (don't) accept it or drink it,
do you really want to drink it?

some days are over,
we have learned too much, we see and see and cannot stop seeing.

ii.

too much loneliness
a number that stays zero
dreams that have nowhere left to travel
the times, they are so bare

the way hope expels
for good,

the king of England
wears a tablecloth on his head
his kingdom, his country, a gutted intestine
it is very crowded there

all the king's countrymen &
all the good places to go
disemboweled
third world kneels in parasitic prayer

***** garbage on the ground, ***** garbage all around
the way hope expels
for good,
it is no small tear

possums know jazz

                         dig Coltrane/snap
                              to that bebop

           groove to trumpets
louder than Vietnam, Iraq, Gaza

                break like pregnant waters
                                      born of dry ice
                                                         vaporized

bonobo possums, antipodeans
                                        grazing on

Antarctic fission/fusion
fluxus fata morgana

needed like we need
Bonobo lottery tickets

                  (re)membered reconstituted loss

                                                           hard investment
                                         in a well-lubricated account:

man-baby fake-*** banker

                     insolvent in liquidity

       as if Bonobos actually played jazz
                              and Coltrane merely

                              interpreted (snap)

Swaying, to an electronic beat.
Hallucinogenic mushroom treat.
Blissed out youth in easy grace,
dancing in a limbic space
in their comfy border town--
have no idea what’s going down.

But there will always be disorder
if you choose to paint Hell’s border
while you live on the other side--
a created,  artificial divide.
Heaven and Hell will soon collide.

Most poets now are boring clowns
Meandering, confessional;
Their muses quick to pawn their crowns
Claiming to be professional;
Credentialed by some stuffy place
That ruined all poetic grace.

Miss Chang is one. The current breed:
Murmuring, sighing in her tea—
Exhibiting neurotic need
To tell sad stories. Let her be.
She’s found her niche. She does her schtick
Repeating endlessly one trick.

We notes the symptoms and the signs:
Turning dull maudlin thoughts to prose,
Then making of it ragged lines
(Post-modern sickness clearly shows.)
But adding line-breaks here and there
Is simply words in disrepair.

Poor dear, it’s clear she dwells in grief
(And follows funerals to the bank…)
We realize, with some relief
It’s not her fault. We have to thank
The avant-boring visionaries
Praising her obituaries;

Milquetoast academic schools
Of well-degreed neurotic fish
Who spawn such vapid bubbling fools
As fit for neither hook nor dish.
And thus, we’re left with Rupi Kaur
In this, the muses’ dullest hour.

NIGRA SUM SED FORMOSA

The queen of the South will rise up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it,
for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and indeed a greater than Solomon is here.
                                             Matthew 12:42

She materializes
from ancient Marib and the Horn of Africa
to fulfill final prophecy:

Upping the ante of Solomon’s triple six
Erythrean Makkeda/Balkis appears, manifests, descends
sweeps in amidst clouds of frankincense:
immaculate golden sandstorm
crossing over our threshold
having passed through Arabia
in her palanquin;
with retinue of camels and courtiers
spices and incense
invading, bursting into the Baroque,

King George II freaks out:
how to handle her—
arriving unannounced
in England in 1749 . . .
But Sheba is beatific
under a towering white wig,
enveloped in silk brocade;
Lutheran angels uphold her trailing gown…

Handel, inspired, knows what to do.

Saba: We come to the seventh day
we enter her rest—
a greater than Solomon has arrived.

Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.