A new third world ******* emerged.
South of the U.S.
North of Mexico.
On the Gulf Coast.
Flag: Cantor, Black; Field, Black
Bird: Raptor
Flower: Fly Trap
Motto: Your Body Is the Body Politic.

Dallas, November 1963
Fifty-seven years since they shot Kennedy
Everyone saw then live on T.V.
what happens when you challenge
secret society

Some say the mob or the CIA
Either black or white, but the truth is gray
and long since buried 'neath Texas clay
right next to good ol' LBJ

I ask not what my country can do for me
Blood on her hands, Lady Liberty
Let sleeping dogs lie, leave history be
The truth died in Dallas, 1963

I want to be held from the cold
As the warm water hits my body
Emulating embers slowly fading in the night
I can't help but notice
Goosebumps on untouched skin
I want to be held from the cold
Deja vu overwhelms my mind
Ive felt this feeling before
its almost childlike
innocence
I want to be held from the cold

Particles of sand swept from beneath my feet
As the wind blows into the nonexistent future
Uncovering remnants of a past set in stone
Relieves my dry mouth with a taste so bittersweet
But in the end my solace is only a mirage
A fleeting feeling carried away by the dry air
impatience prolongs erosion
To leave my mountain of guilt for an indefinite stay

Cotton has a plantation,
It’s home in central Texas.
It might be your cremation.
Don’t drive up in your Lexus.

In the barn he persecutes.
Devices of mad torture.
Chainsaws, meat hook executes,
Diced and spilt into quarters.

The Bloodbath we fascinate,
Victims face he has gotten.
Oh my, he does dominate.
****** face here’s some Cotten.

I want to drive him to the country and sit in the silence like dew.
And listen to the grass stained hills take little sips of air.
And listen to the roosters gasp for the light of the rising sun.
I want him to feel this – this Texas.
Where the crickets croak eternal  
and the cayotes call confused to country dogs like the wild.
I want to drive him to the country and weep excess tears
down our cold, city scathed cheeks
in rhythm with the birds as they sing their morning songs –
and swoon each other awake.
Who will swallow the worm as prey?
And you’ll hear them say:
maybe it isn’t so much about all you do and do and do?
and the sun’s lips share the same message,
but only to the few who know a Texas country morning
like a well-kept secret:
whose cups catch the cows stretching when they wake.

I want to drive him to the country and cry
and decide what life is like in synchronous solitude
with her timelessness
Singing of Dawn’s baby yawn -
the sound of her silence a sweet surprise.
Her fingertips linger
on each blade, on each bend, on each bug and tree.
I want him to understand the longing in each whistle and tune –
for country cravings aren’t satisfied with one lover’s hand,
but imbued with the light touch of a million–
all abundant in each drop of river and pond.
And when he sees the shadow of fences lining pasture walls
and reflecting on the wet ground,
we’ll turn on the engine and drive away.
The day will forget, with its ever-searching eyes,
what it saw in that morning sky.
But the body will remember – as it does
with each kiss, with each touch and scent,
sweet, sweet Texas will whisper her fingertips full of song –
and the birds will sing, and the worms will whine,
and the dew will drip as your senses will rise.

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hurricanes can’t survive where northern boys rule,
it is just a national geographic magazine truth,
everybody knows the slow frenetic taking is a compromise,
my tongue parachutes inside the dome and the soft down
comforter is on the floor in the hotel room with a view of
fifth avenue and central park and the occasional glance outside,
a landing zone for the  V-day parapoets

room service delivers in god’s love we trust.
i teach you my mastery and you laugh
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is that the best you got
and I laugh
cause we don’t got hurricanes in manhattan
unless they are man made
and the shower handle won’t turn us off

in what time zone is it am4:29
and you feed me verses like long legged spaghetti lines,
and i say too fast too fast and you say too bad too bad
northern boy
that how texas blondes shotgun size write poems

4:29am