Bleedin' Poetry
The ringmaster left
but the carnival stayed in town.
Erect, proud, empowered people
stride by living the Crayola dream.
Awash in color, characters in the screenplay,
the scene played with aborigine like dream walkers.
No surface left to its utilitarian plight,
all stroked and stoked with the creativity
of the artist, all crooned to by boombox
and skateboard smack, or the concrete
slap of a mariachis’ feet.
The burnt bright white light shivers
to a Hendricks strum, and the caffeinated come
one by one hooked in to hook up,
to the juke boxes sixties twang.
Children play on Aztec snakes rising
from a soft foam of green with
mosaic skin and glass eyes
freed from the restrictions, the confines,
the confounded, gay, straight, bi, free
bleeding poetry.
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