I said she was the best man I know
And she took offense,
As if I’d stolen her feminine mystique
I said I meant it metaphorically,
Like chess pieces, so I guess
You can be the queen

Then I said, Of all the people I’ve known
You’re the only one
Who doesn’t hate, envy, lie or cheat,
except at cards,
And since it’s all a game
Maybe I can be the king

She said, Be whatever you want,
Just pay the rent,
Don’t bite the hand that feeds
And keep yours out of the cookie jar
Because this ain’t no game
Unless you want to play the fool

I stumbled, I fell along the way
And didn’t notice your pain
Trying to catch myself

When I did it seemed too late
As if I couldn’t rise again
And walk next to you

And so I stumbled further
Along crooked highways
Where hollow philosophies tripped me

Then I sought a subtler path,
A fool traveling old roads
Hoping that I might find you there

But mine was a hopeless odyssey
Leading down blind alleys
No map could ever trace

Where, when I called your name
I heard only empty echoes
That scarcely reached my ears

Like the lonely siren’s call
That lures me to that sacred shore
Where we once walked before the fall

Big brown eyes searching, seeking
Catch my bright blue orbs a-peeking

Brown haired tyke shuffling tiny feet
Is it my brogans you’ve come to greet?

Biding there beneath my growing girth
What could a moment like this be worth?

Bending down we meet face to face as
Brown blends to blue in subtle grace

Bambino blinks slowly as I grow older
Then lays his head on my broad shoulder

Brilliant rows of unblinking eyes
Stare at us with dumb surprise

But do they see what’s happening here?
And what brings that ringing to my ears?

Beyond my blaring auricular condition
I hear a trumpeting, an angelic rendition

Bestowing sight to those unnaturally blind
To the benign child in all mankind...

Behold, two souls have breached time and space
To ogle each other in this most ocular place.

Forty acres and a mule is Rueben’s stake,
in sandy-soiled pine-country
by a stream fed lake;
There he plants cotton, corn and ‘taters,
a patch of melons, beans and ‘maters;

Centuries of struggle landed him here
through rough sea-voyages fraught with fear
to endless lost days of pain and tears
brought at the hand of cruel overseers;

Freedom now is the clarion call,
a trumpet resounding
down Congress’ hall;
A chance to prosper in the un-chosen land
and to raise a family by his own sure hand;

With joy and goodness he buries the hate
unloading his burden and buoying his fate
beyond sheltering pines and the wooden gate
of a cozy house he’s built of late;

Children freed from that forbidding plight,
help with chores
and play with delight;
while Mother loosed from unspoken shame,
nourishes them there like warm summer rain;

Plow and plant, then nurture, then reap
skills developed when labor was cheap
are now built-up in freedom grown sweet,
as the tide of change begins its neap;

Wily carpetbaggers with big cash to spend,
use guile and trickery
the rules to bend
twisting men’s minds toward vile obstruction
while ****** the Law of Reconstruction;

Rueben prospers in this miraculous scheme
there in the forest by the fresh water stream
revering each day a freedman’s dream,
then wakes one night to a low, anguished scream;

The scene is horrific outside the front door,
his mind gropes madly
for a safe sandy-shore;
so he shuttles his family to the woods out back
while listening to the sounds of an awful attack;

Horse-mounted specters with torches ablaze
set fire to the barn and trample the maize
then gallop a-whopping as his old dog bays
at a burning cross where the dead mule lays;

They hide in the pines through a dreadful night
allaying kid’s fears
and the old dog’s fright;
Then return to the farm under a red morning sky,
to find the promise a smoldering burnt lie;

Jesus suffered again on that cross, it’s plain,
as sure as if Pilate had taken rein
leading hate-filled men on a satanic campaign
‘neath fear’s hood and white sheets of shame;

Madmen imagine their cause to be just,
leaving innocents moldering,
mangled in the dust;
With swords blood rusted and Bibles in belts,
they shout fiery sermons, as small worlds melt;

A hundred years flash by in slow fury,
history being written with no trial or jury,
It’s the same baleful, sorry old story,
thems doin' the tellin' gets all the glory;

But history sometimes reshuffles the deck,
And deals a new hand
to ruffle the stiff-necks
of modern raiders who race to the fore
to stanch the tide of progress once more;

Blind to their trail of ****** mistakes
and ignoring slimy vipers let loose on the take,
They go scape-goating—thrashing for snakes—
in sandy-soiled pine country, by stream fed lakes.

Stopped to talk yesterday
drank beer, watched kids play
as time slipped away
across borders
of white noise multi-media
where talking heads need ya'
to stand up and cheer
pros reaping beau-coup pay
and all those **** supporters
out there
stretching for something to say

Called Dial-a-Prayer on the phone
brewing coffee, start to groan
as the words drone
over magic
fiber-optic cables
beaming neo-synoptic fables
that make it clear:
God and doG buried the bone
and now the hiss of static
dead air
is jamming my talking Jones

Hearing a man of learned wit
I drain a Coke, sip by sip
as specious words slip
across pages
of Colonel Blimp’s his-story
dripping such tired sophistry
that it would be queer
if not the slow drip
of lies passed through the ages
with care
to fill small minds with ****

So now let us stand and pray
then shout please go away
to hacks that spray
with scurrilous delight
words that fall like precious stones
into the laps of ditto-head clones
who say here, here
and without further delay
spread the lies at night
to the cheers
of those with nothing to say