before age two,
before she walked or wore
her first pair of shoes. She
held down the fort when

daddy left home. He was
the type of man, that liked to
roam. She soldiered on through
her mother's drunken nights,

when dear old mom knocked
out her lights. Mopped up her
***** on the kitchen floor. Home
was a place she called

war. She didn’t have ribbons
and satin dresses. Her mouth,
filled with abscesses. She wore
thrift-shop clothes, moth-eaten

ones, with quarter-sized
holes. She dropped out of
school to get a job. Not a day
goes by that she doesn't

sob. But she holds her
head up high because she
has a new home made of
paper. She calls a poem.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                               Tea: A Ceremony of Civilisation


               "Would you like an adventure, or would you like
               to have your tea first?"

                                                     -Peter Pan


England

Tea! Glorious cups of tea! For you and me!
Tea from the ***, strong and wonderfully hot!
Sandwiches with ham, butter and toast and jam
And before the washing-up, another cup!

China

Tea. Meditative tea, a thoughtful sea
Tea softly, softly brewed, a gentle mood
An invocation lifted, philosophy sifted
A liturgy free of any urgency

South of the 49th parallel

Gimme that jug off the grocery store shelf
I ain’t got no time to brew it myself

gold was rust the day
this turned to dust. All
the bouncing dots
flatlined. Swans in the lake

turn swine. When did
the sunflowers drop their
heads? Their bright yellow
petals shed like cat hair

on the stripe upholstered
chair. When did the cornflower
sky sigh with the wind and turn
charcoal? How did the moon

break into pieces when once
whole? The sun's rays douses
its light? What cut the string
of the high-flying kite? Why

July, did you turn frost? Blades
in the yard from standing
now moss. The diamond ring
is glass. Inside of it, many cracks.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                        My Bestest Friend in the Whole First Grade


                                            For Rodney Joe Webb
                                               of happy memory


Our fathers’ farms were across the road from each other
We rode the big yaller feller to school
After the morning milking: Run! Run! We’ll be late!
And back again for the evening milking

We knew all sorts of stuff about battleships
And that Roy Rogers was better than Gene Autry
Chevy or Ford, and America could never be licked
Robin Hood and the biggest fish in the pond

The farms are long gone, and the fields of hay –
I went to his visitation today

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the grave
Darkness, darkness, teach me to be brave
As shadows fall across the trees
and inky shade stills stormy seas
Darkness, darkness, teach me to be brave.

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the night
Darkness, darkness, take me from the light
Clothe me in the velvet soft black
and weave me a cloak to take me back
Darkness, darkness take me from the light.

Darkness, darkness, lonely as the moon
Darkness, darkness, sing me a soft tune
Hold my hand and lead me away
hide me from the sun of the day
Darkness, darkness, sing me a soft tune.

Chorus:
Gently, hold me, unto the end.
Darkness, darkness. Approach my friend.
Gently, hold me, unto the end.
Darkness, darkness. Approach my friend.

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)

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                                         ­   Merch

What, then, is merch? Tchotchkes and souvenirs?
Gift shop gimcrackery from a day at the beach
An airport tee on the way home from London
A Canadian flag stamped on a made-in-China cup?

No

Merch is now the livery of submission:
Politicians selling you your own souls
Entertainers fondling your credit cards
If you give them money they will be your friends

Don’t follow them; for you are good and true -
Wear, read, think, sing, and honor the nobility in you

Don’t stay because you feel you must,
Love can’t be built on guilt or dust.
Stay only if your heart beats true,
If every breath still aches for “you.”

I want your smile, not just your face,
Your laughter warm, your soft embrace.
But if your joy begins to fade,
Don’t let our love become a cage.

I’d rather kiss you one last time,
Than hold you bound by silent crime.
So stay, my love, if love is why
Not just to soothe a saddened sigh.

I've been to the
bitter, dark place
where dreams are
decorations in
dilapidated houses,
a building haunted by
the ghosts of spring.
I tasted the wine of
****** and convicts
there.

I've prayed with the
broken and wasted.
I spent
days and months,
almost forever with
the feral men and
women of America in
homes not fit for fleas.

Then one cosmic day,
while the wounded slept,
I chased a beautiful
moth that escaped the flame.
And that has made all
the difference.