Swirling colors
paint the market square,
shrimp lie heaped
next to the
bananas & chilis,
there's lemonade,
tires with rubber patches,
a sense of community
hangs in the air.
Deals are made
in hard currency
or in trade.
A natural flow exists,
as if everyone
is on autopilot.
And behind the scenes,
just under the surface,
one feels the depression,
pain is palpable.
You can see it in
the eyes of the dogs,
rib-poking-skinny,
hairless, manged & skittish.
They hang with the limbless ones,
half-humans,
legless & starved,
dragging themselves
on cobbled streets
through ***** matter & *****,
wallowing in the mire,
begging for peanuts & money.
It ain't funny.

Jimmy was just plain right,
he did nothing wrong,
he kicked political correctness
in the ***,
said it was a sad day
when people couldn't talk about
religion or politics or pull a race card.

We called him Popeye,
he said he was what he is,
he was the glue of the platoon.
He gave no apologies,
said people could stick it
where the sun didn't shine
if they didn't like what he said.

Seems strange now,
that's the guy I'd want with me
if the apocalypse came.
He was no sniveler
seeking pity.
He was real.
Not a crying faker.
He disappeared in Colombia,
said he was going down
to check out the coffee,
but I have my doubts.
I miss him.

Passing judgment is subjective,
it’s in the eyes of the beholder.
You know it, don’t do it.
It goes something like you point a finger at someone
& they're four pointing back at you.
Like who makes anyone a judge & jury?
That’s right, arrogance.
It’s usually themselves,
spilling volumes about how righteous they are.
They’re what some label a smokescreen character,
a ******* flimflam artist,
holier than thou, you know the type.
They wouldn’t last ten seconds in a firefight.

Bottom line: trust no one, not even yourself.
I saw family members
give up their relatives
to make a buck.
That’s right, greenbacks.
A regular family-affair.
Imagine selling out blood for paper.
We called it a war on terror.
They called it Jihad.
It didn’t matter what anybody called it.
There was no God involved.
Just human nature & people pointing fingers.
The same old show,
the same old ****,
dogs & ponies
one upping each other.

I want to go to Romania,
split this vacuum,
fly jumbo
across the deep blue
into Bucharest.

I want to adopt a gypsy baby,
a fat one with olive skin,
one with Romany eyes,
cries all the time,
bangs its head
against the crib.

I want to be a saint,
make a difference
in at least one person's life.
I figured a gypsy baby
might be the most grateful.

Having another gypsy
as a parent
would certainly
be better than
a non-gypsy one.

I want to count your freckles,
every single one of them.

Think I'll start with your pretty face,
trace each one with a special kiss
all over the place,
the hidden ones, too.

And if I miss one,
I hope you'll let me
do it
all over again.

Violin background
I feel my sad heart broken
& her cold silence

Baking in the sun
A creature met the maker
Buddha rolled over sad

You’ve walked the edge,
strung yourself out
on the bent-dreams of others,
stared delirium straight in its ugly face.
Carrying scars from the dark side,
you strut with perfection,
molded from that which isn’t.

And in that vein, you are more
sacred than all the saints
who line the halls of Heaven,
even those devils squatting in hell.
For they are dead memories
& you are living proof.

You want to play war,
you think you’re so tough,
go ahead then,
I’ve got something
for your belligerence.
That’s right,
put up your dukes,
let’s fight!

O yeah soldier,
sniff some of my vapor,
inhale it deep,
get a good whiff.

At first you’ll get a runny nose,
probably try to rip off your clothes,
you’ll have trouble breathing
with a constricted chest,
as your pupils dilate,
you’ll make a confessional,
get blistered.

Then you’ll *****,
urinate & defecate,
soil your pants,
do the funky-monkey
spin spastic
& keel over
with a closed-throat,
stone cold dead.

You see,
I am the result
of diabolical science,
I’m manufactured specifically
to ruin your day
& I will.

There’s a spirit living deep inside of me
that cannot be stifled,
it carries a weathered canvas pack,
wears woolen gloves
with holes in the fingers,
it’s denim has worn out knees,
boots are cracked leather,
topped with a faded red bandana.

It has sat in jungle downpours,
crossed wide oceans of blue,
tasted sand in the desert winds,
camped on sacred burial grounds,
seen the curvature of the Earth.

And if you knew its ways,
you’d swear it was created in pure love,
which can never die,
it can only leave footprints,
my spirit.