Shooting Dope With Puddle Water

SHOOTING DOPE WITH PUDDLE WATER I was walking through puddles of oatmeal As other folks drove behind a steering wheel I was stuck in a park putrefied by puke With no apologies nor lies I wished to rebuke I was floating in a lake filled with dog s**t Lucky there were no dogs present who bit However there was this tiger running loose As I watched that tiger consume a goose at this time I really don’t want to haggle But it could have been one goose or a gaggle I was trying to ignore the ignorance all around While more oatmeal headed for holy ground Someone stole the soapbox I preached upon yesterday But it’s difficult to stand on a soapbox with feet of clay For I am a man who feels that every man’s death is mine And instead of oatmeal I wished it would rain some vintage wine Oatmeal, dog s**t, a tiger and some geese While psychotic psychics profess there will never be any peace After my soapbox was stolen I would just going around asking anyone Will this be the kind of land and legacy I want to leave for my grandson? (2001)… ….free cee (this poem is dedicated to a little boy whose whole journey through adolescence I am missing, because 4,000 miles of tar, brick and the sea separate the proudest grandfather and Mr. T.I. (I am required to use initials so as not to give away a son’s concern) as cute a kid that ever was aloud to be little, happy and have a father as his best friend, and his mom as a “dedicated mother rather than a regimented wife.” May he grow up in a world wherein everyone finds comfort in every one and courtesy with respect from everyone alive)