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Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.

But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous ****
he sought to buttress.

His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.

His savage dogs,
hungry for meat,
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.

His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
******
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking *****
back onto his face.

The weight of history
moves with the just.

Untruth,
arch rival of justice,
is blown away,
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.

Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.

He stands on
the other side of the river.

He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the *****
of Abraham.

Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.

Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.

A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.

Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water

MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
written to commemorate
the first MLK Jr. Day,
1/20/86 in NYC
Tony Tweedy  Mar 2019
Epitath
Tony Tweedy Mar 2019
I survived the broken heart just fine.
It was the collateral damage to my mind that killed me.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Did I ever ride one of these casino busses?
That's how I met my wife.

Is this weird enough?
seven measured spans of ten plus some,
this bit, this collection of second chances,
in how many?
in ever,
how many spans of tens have passed, without me?
or,
without the star stuff Sagan says  
I am made of?

or I am made? I was.

That's the measure of my worth,

nay, I say.
Rue the day I told that lie

shall be my epitath, should I leave without
a-counting
them there ex
acted, mockinbird killin' days and ways we was

when we was
never governed, as a people, or a tribe.
as ids,
we was wild injuns, us kids was. we did as we pleased.

life was fine,
livin' by the river, you can imagine a cloud

occlusion of green greasewood smoke
softening a barely waking moon
four thumbs high at sundown

keeping fairy tales down low enough
that grandpas
can snag

-- and release and come back jack, right here
--to this dangling hook

and it's always gonna be this way

catch and release,

life's story your story goes on.
You never lose your place,

that's mortally impossible
to pose a

quandry
quandary (n.)"state of perplexity," 1570s, of unknown origin, perhaps a quasi-Latinism based on Latin quando"when? at what time?; at the time that, inasmuch," pronominal adverb of time, related to qui"who" (from PIE root *kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns). Originally accented on the second syllable.

pronomial adverb, eh?
Writers were warned away from adverbs,
back when grammar tyranny strained
at knots and gnostic gnats magi-ifical
add-on augmented at your own risc

made you notice
tech times change faster than Timex

Sinclair-- sorry, senility function was left on from earlier missions

Force-recon recollected war stories being moved permanently into fish story status before
legend adds a layer
of gloryshit
at funerals.

Reduced Instruction Set Chip, chip
chipping is
addiction diction
A.I. *** us a whole Yah bus win, it's
Free Play day at the Ol' Folk Home.

We sing old songs on the way to Viejas and
laugh about all we left in Vegas.
Thanks, dear reader, my sanity hinges on you, like the swing doors on the Longbranch
Strike the match
Write it as my epitath
dance in heaven
and never come back

I am consumed
by the magick moon
smell the perfume
of the girls on the prowl

I made a star
I made it alive
he is everywhere you are
You cannot die

As I know
death is an illusion
You have one soul
You dance on the ocean

I am consumed
by the magick moon
smell the perfume
of the girls on the prowl

Join the circle
Come get it out
Pay your homage
To the one all about

As I see
Through the darkness
and sail on the sea
With his tender caress

I am consumed
by the magick moon
smell the perfume
of the girls on the prowl

The beautiful creatures
With the beautiful features
Who've been condemned and used
Since of the beginning of the ruse

Oh star child
You who run wild
come dance awhile
with me and everyone

I am consumed
by the magick moon
smell the perfume
of the girls on the prowl

The sound of the owl
The glistening of the star sky
The sensual world and its howl
With my dog mask I howl for you

As I view
The girls dancing
Around the fire
Filled with desire

I am consumed
by the magick moon
smell the perfume
of the girls on the prowl

of the girls on the prowl
of the girls on the prowl
of the girls on the prowl
of the girls on the prowl
There is more to Being than this Life.
nivek  Jun 2017
Poetical Epitath
nivek Jun 2017
I shared all I had
and still my cup runs over
Nolan Bucsis Apr 2018
There were a few secret subtle moments.
I shared with you.
But.
Mostly you're just.
Dead and.
Gone.
Miss Pitt

Miss Pitt was an enigma in her neighborhood of Kent.
Though never wed, many people whispered that she had a past
that would curl your hair. Some said she was a spy who went
deep cover in post-war Berlin, and she had to leave fast.

Others thought she'd been an acrobat of the trapeze
and high wire. They said there was no stunt she wouldn't try.
She must have had a deathwish when she climbed Mt. Hood, with skis,
then skied down slopes so steep, you'd think she thought she couldn't die.

Not much else is known because she didn't talk about
her past at all. Parker from the U.P.S, gave her a box,
some fifteen years ago from Germany. "was from some *****,"
he joked, (jackassedly). Her garden's path was where she walks

some nights by moonlight, and hums an old refrain half-forgotten.
I've heard she brought a vessel out and set it on the lawn,
along with a jug of schnapps. "meine geliebte, das verboten"
she's been heard to mumble, then she'd sing and sob till dawn.

On last night's news, we heard that she'd been stabbed with a knife
and died. She had been riding home on the subway, when two
drunken bangers began to harangue the pretty teen who
sat to her left. "Hey little mama, betcha never in your life

have you seen a **** this big." He grabbed his crotch and grinned.
The girl put her head down. "What's a matter pretty *****, you shy?"
He touched her hair, and said to the other, "you ain't never sinned
so sweet, 'til you had young ***** so hot. He rubbed her thigh.

"If you want to keep your *****, you'll leave this girl alone."
Miss Pitt coldly said, startling everyone around. The banger turned
to see a white haired lady stare with eyes as cool as stone.
"You? you wrinkled prune gonna take my nuts? I'd a thought you'da learned,

you boss No One!" The banger ****** off her flowered hat and said,
"Hey Manny, this one needs somethin' to think about. you gotcher blade?
"Hell yeah bro." Manny said, and put a hunter's knife to her head.
Now who's gonna do the cuttin', old hag? the banger asked. The old maid

didn't flinch, but said to the girl, "Whatever else, find a real man."
Two loud shots cracked, and the banger grabbed his groin. "I'm shot!"
he screamed. His ****** hands set the car to panic. With a deadpan
face, Miss Pitt turned to Manny and asked, "Und du Kapitan Scheissehaut?"

Moments passed, and Manny's eyes grew wide, and when she didn't shoot,
but said, "Ich komme zu dir, meine Liebe", Manny lunged and stabbed her heart.
They said she smiled, and said to Manny, "Danke Arschloch." Without dispute
the witnesses agreed they saw no gun, and later once the cops took apart

the scene, turns out her purse had a secret pouch that held a gun.
A Walther thirty two had shot two holes where ***** had been.
Her will required, she be buried in Berlin, with the urn of her son.
next to a certain grave; her epitath simply to read "Amen."

I wondered if the banger boys would ever have a clue
to understand that character and conscience meant more than turds.
It's a language of it's own, sadly spoken by way too few.
I knew what she meant, although I couldn't translate the words.
Nolan Bucsis Sep 2019
It's a.
Cold hard.
World out there.
Kiddies.

Stay safe won't you.
Stay sane must you.
Stay normal lest you stand out.

And become.
Destroyed.

Oh kiddies.
I know.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Hard as an isolated diamond.

Looking for my rough.

And it's always a sob story they're singing.
Always a love song they're writing.

And there's no better torch song than an epitath.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

— The End —