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.

A sign is planted bravely on your grass
Informing those of us who live as brutes
That tolerance abounds within your class
And that we don’t possess your virtuous fruits.
But whether you proclaim by sign or flag
Or misbegotten sticker on your car,
We note you fail to notice that you brag;
And make yourself a moral commissar.
Pride is prideful—all arrogance conceit.
Projecting your neurosis has grown old . . .
We laugh at you, not with you. Your deceit,
Ungrasped by you, is easy to behold.
The barren tree you planted in your pride
Informs the world you’ve failed to take God’s side.

Is that you / Your eyes slowly fading?

After the stereo (flip that vinyl over)
After the **** hits (burbleburbleburble)
After the subway (next stop Bwahstan Gahden, Bwahstan Gahden)
After bolting down Burger King  (♪ Have it your way... ♫)
        We entered the garden.

Is that you / Your mind full of tears?
Is that you / Searching for a good time?
Is that you / Waiting for all these years?

Santana looked so small way down there on stage from our upper balcony seats, especially Chepito, lit by lurid 70's arena-lights. They seemed disproportionate to the ear-splitting amplification from towering walls of matte-black speakers, amidst  sparklers, firecrackers, with **** wafting over legions of high school students. I can't recall the songs, just the rhythm. When the smoke cleared, ears dazed and ringing, the harsh lights flooded several hundred young persons exiting the garden for the subway.

Is that you / Looking 'cross the ocean
Is that you / Thinking nothing's really there?

J. was still sitting in his seat. Come on. We gotta go.
But my friend J. looked lost, vacant.
Come on J, the trains stop running soon let's go!  
J. did not respond. He leaned forward and vomited on the cement floor between his feet.

Is that you / Waiting for the sunshine?
Is that you / When all you see is glare?

Hark—nightingales sing songs of dawning spring.
The flitting bluejays banter in the trees.
A sparrow greets a dove, and both take wing,
While robins fight with cardinals. The breeze
Bears on its unseen currents feathered tribes:
The nutfinch mothers feed their new-hatched flocks.
Now crows appear: dark jesters squawking jibes;
The swooping blackbirds protest preying hawks . . .

Strangely, some younger birds attempt to moult
Confused in youthful avian revolt,
And cast off gender; ***** attempt to nest.
Chickadees chirp, proclaiming they are cats
And other fowl identify as bats.
(Their madness serves to entertain the rest.)

That Japanese thing about ants:
Yoko Ono (but worse) at first glance,
Is an improvisation
Producing frustration
In readers, when given a chance…


I was hoping to find a bit more
In Sawako’s ridiculous Score;
But her total is zero,
This scribbling hero—
Her poem was truly a bore.