A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****.
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.

Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.

But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.

Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.

When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day

The Ogre does what ogres can,
Deeds quite impossible for Man,
But one prize is beyond his reach,
The Ogre cannot master Speech:
About a subjugated plain,
Among its desperate and slain,
The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
While drivel gushes from his lips.

It’s hard for me to listen to your sorrow and pain
because it reminds me once more and again
of the place far away that I used to know,
the place to which never again can I go

Your story of how the neighborhood you  knew
was burned to the ground; there was nothing you could do
reminds me of how, when I when I turn on the news,
I see starving babies, dead bodies, but no ambulance crew

A coastline of rubble, grey rocks and black smoke
I did what I could, but there is no more hope.
I know it’s my job and the least I can do
to do what I can, to maybe help you.

What you survived was not war but a fire
And the future you face isn’t nearly so dire
But the words that you use and the stories you tell
Reminds me of those murderers who create  living hell

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.

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.