limp procession of democracy
in the center ring: education
the corner leaning towards bitter strife

ghastly voice yelling,
something about blocks and lining up
building great things with edgy hands
leaning towards striking

bitter woman with your bitter words and your bitter children
asking for handouts and quiet whilst standing gogglemouthed
and weighted hips bulging with blindsight and laze--

to the feeble minded, this may sound like air
moving languish through the halls

but to the narrowed eyed pressed against the wall
skirting harsh words and enemies in disguise
it is chalk dust
choking calm with text book lies and five minute increments
of how to line up on blocks and build great things made of silence

it is how change comes and stays too long
building ratty nests snuggled in the system of children
waiting for lunch and a clue
waiting for significance and relevance

if out the depths some semblance of what was
would emerge
then what great things could we conjure again

i have to turn the music up real loud because sometimes,
i hate your fucking voice

is the same sun in mexico setting spanish style in memphis?
the wide oak maple poplars looking cacti in the setting light
the midland delta south shacks shaking like a siesta in the muddy river land
the blue boys bouncing jingles up downtown like gringos on their own home turf
wars as bloody here as there and the boarders as pronounced

what is remembered from being on the road, so open?
desolate highway rift through her skin
and the dust is flying
balling up street calling like a winded cat on the fringe
of madness-great things—between sleep and sorrow

her barrel sticking out happy
trigger happy
singing about big skies and makeup–
the stuff women are made of
in shanty towns where living is hard shackled iron eyes
sweat stained laundry on the line
bare feet printed in the ground pitter patter pitter patter
ring around the rosy
ashes ashes Spanish sun
ashes ashes