There’s a growing clamor toss all the poets in the
slammer
to bring down hard that poet-pounding hammer.
Every Goddamn thing you do no is on “Candid Camera.”
The Grim Reaper he took away Ozzie, you know the Oz-Man
& then @ about the same time, we got Bozman.*
Ain’t that sort of shit awesome?
A tan woman decked all in black, her head shaved like for
chemotherapy, limps by barely able to walk,
a half-drunk fifth of clear booze in her left hand
a walking cane in her right. I watch her struggle up the street
hoping I don’t have to call 911 then run to her aid.
Life & Death are always on parade @ the Junctiion,
which is some kinda microcosm of a
quite modest working-class existence,
that is the vastly priveleged Nothern Hemisphere.
My little pen must think it queer to stop
w/o a braking-point near on this day so hazy-queer.
I don’t wish to be horiffic, horendous nor stupendous.
But I do wanna write shit that will really send-us SWOOSH!
Like the sending email sound on one program on my MAC.
You see old Mister Natural was right; we
all gotta “keep-on-keepin’-on.”
How frequently my rap now leads me back to
“Poetic-Resurrection.”
Which is where I wanna be because it
is now our one & only chance.
The postal carrier arrives, today a lovely red-head
w/ a smile that melts this o’ soul.
We exchange pleasantries & then she left
swaying down Grant Street, a dicatomous opposite
of the “lady in black” limping the other way
striking that Holland-tee Junctiion balance,
a new balance arrived @ through dogged persistence
& through an insistence on staying the narrow course
twixt the Devil & the Deep Blue Sea
& “there’s no place else on earth that I would rather be.”
*Bozman is the new born son of our dear friends Alexis & Andrew Splendorio. He was not breathing when born but suffered no damage.
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This content originally appeared on CounterPunch.org and was authored by Orin Domenico.