Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
the way you look over your glasses
as you kick those journos’ arses
I love your hairy nostrils and your square double chin
but most of all I love the way you know everythin’
not a skerrick of doubt, any subject, any time
you can hold forth. you’re ready to chime

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you don’t need no research. no need to hold back
here is your wisdom, you’re on the attack
here is the gospel according to Tuckey
you front them with macho, you front them so plucky
you tell them the answers straight from the heart
they look like stunned mullets as you take them apart

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you run rings round those greenies, those tree hugging ****
with their talk about warming, their climate change glum
I trust you Wilson, you know better than them
you can leave them all gobstruck with a home spun gem

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you can spot a terrorist at a hundred paces
the ones with the beards and the slightly dark faces
we don’t want them here taking our jobs and houses
with their Qurans and burqas and baggy white trousers

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you show us what it means to be Australian
some call you redneck, some say you’re not cool
but you are our bedrock, you are no fool
you are the brown substance of this wide, sunburnt land
and that’s why, Wilson Tuckey, I really, really, really love you man.

Here's the thing--
I don't like to lie.
So, if you asked me where I am from,
I'd have to assess you and your prejudices before announcing in a single breath --

"I am a Malayali from Bombay raised in Saudi Arabia."

My identity comes in as a triple threat.
And people treat me like an escaped convict
"Oh, how many burqas do you own?"
"Four, and they're still not enough to save me from your ridiculous questions."

I don't like to lie.
So, I'll tell you I've had a terrible day
and the best thing that happened to me today was lunch.

I will voluntarily admit that my feet hurt in those shoes
And I'd rather be at home.
But, my pen refused to stop writing.

I choose not to wrap my truths in acceptability
Because my identity does not need to be graded
(not like I deserve less than an A+)
I decided to let my bottom sit on a throne in my own mind
Rather than at the feet of self-proclaimed lords of the universe
I'll fix my sights on what's here today.

I'm a queen of my own will;
Of shoes that fit
and jeans that never will.

I am also confused and I write to confuse some more.
Maybe I'll just wrap myself in words
And hand myself over to you and say --
"Congrats! It's a story."

I can bore you with talk
of women and children,
but it is simple enough to say
human beings.

Human beings
run in gathering storms
of concrete dust;
run from misting
of meat.

Explosions are sudden fatal therapy
for human beings
suffering dissonance,
and there's nothing quite
the same as losing words.

All of these
human beings,
cut-off
quick
in Tourette syndrome
(****!)
Pu.nc-tu-a.tion.

Caught in the concrete cloud
darker than Krubera Cave,
lost out on a betrayed Silk Road,
as bloated blue bodies
wash up on Indonesian shores.

This city of centuries
built by human beings,
has now become
almost-five thousand corpses
who dangle their toes
out of shrapnel windows.

Pieces of me sweat
away in an instant of swaying black burqas,
rocking on knees at a cemetery.

I’m standing in Beirut -
nineteen-eighty two.
I watch towers fall.
There has to be
a way to make the world relate,
even if it takes
nineteen years.

My return trip,
feels like a new beginning

New sights and sounds,
to rediscover.

Judaism’s heart and soul
lies within the city.

Winding streets and twisting turns
lead to the Kotel, the Holy of Holies.

A religious center and
my core.

The cultural hub, tossed salad, or melting ***,
of the religious world.

Burqas and Tallit,
Tzitzis and Crosses,
try, oh they try…
to coexist.

The Sun is dire and bites His sandy teeth
Into the burnt and the discourteous.
If you forget to tell us that you've sneezed
The devil will devour you in hell.
The sky is but a face that hides His shame,
In burqas made of promises and cloud.
If you or I were one day to awake
Our blood might chill at all the mocking air.
The desert kindly tucks its child to bed
And never mind the fact of naked bones.
If mystery's the reason for my life,
The One who writes it gives some dreadful clues.
     See, any spectral hand who wants for care
     Is something for which something must be done.

down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora
a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign
an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions
a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine
a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky
the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie
burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not
cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty
the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask
a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora

a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign

an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions

a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine

a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky

the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie

burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not

cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty

the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask

a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016