A grave in Istanbul
He fell down the cargo hold, a long fall
the hold’s floor was made of wood and lessened
the brutal slam when he hit bottom.
He got up, waved to us and climbed the iron-
the ladder onto the deck, he said he was ok
He was not ok!
He had about him something vanishing like
his turn of service was over, all he had to do
was packing his suitcase and leaving but lingered
the ship had been his home for many months
He stood on deck on the vanishing day, looking
towards the city’s lights, he appeared brittle.
No, he was not hungry smoked cigarettes and
had dreamy eyes.
He was there, but he wasn’t there, which made us uneasy
the bright light over his head, a saintly halo.
He went to bed early had been a trying day
In the morning, he was beyond awakening
a broken body, resting for all eternity.
the poet is the ship's Captain
the story is about the sea sailed upon
a tale beneath in the cargo hold
at times the most tranquil of waters
filled with benign waves
become walks along Elysian paths
or a tempest, red skies on the horizon
filling the falling journey into night
no longer now hidden
exposed to the Furies' rage
we are at the helm, quill in hand
where imagination and inspiration
fills the sails of this sojourn
upon acres of dawn's delight
lost in the moon's horizon rising
awaiting the harvest of its grandeur
sailing on without a moment lost
no worry about the surrounding fleet
the cargo we carry is our own
matters not the treasures others possess
because the wealth in this Odyssey
is our accounting of the soul's desires
find the words where boundaries
have to be breached and language
moved to higher peaks
so all the valleys come to know
there are heights where some may go
while sitting beneath the bough
lost in some Idyllic day
read line by line, then take flight
soaring on wings never before experienced
where the soul drinks ever so deeply
from the apertures flowing with nectar
from the Ichor within the poet's quill
OKC 6/22
The transferable tourist
The old ship striped like a rusty zebra
one, that has survived the big storms and attacked
by sea monsters how she still floated was a mystery.
From one obscure port to another, her captain had
forgotten how it felt to be sober.
She was like an old horse that knew its way by instinct.
Offloading clandestine crates, rats in the cargo hold.
When did the vermin come, and what was their destiny?
Morning in La Plata, tonight we will go ashore
in Buenos Aires eat fresh meat and dance the tango
Auto Pilate
is carrion klaxon blaring
a false viral alert
The warning signal says cadavers don’t vote:
“Let not your lying eyes
believe this smear currency contagious hoax”
With pandemic fear spreading,
speculator pockets get fatally hurt
False profits on a spit propellor decline
Supplies warehouse withering on a purchase vine,
bad news ain’t getting no spin message rebate
As more people dying are multiplying
Autocratic vexation —
Viral cause is venture capitalist absolutely dismissed
Free market con-fidence in a virtual free-fall
Publican procrastinators watch
as the body count mount
The price of human life don’t add up to much
Global crisis ... impending plane of imminence crash
Priceless products in the debt cargo hold were sold
at a discount infection rate
Auto Pilate hollow hope cry,
while washing disdain stained hands:
“High kill yield is a ghastly good time to buy!”
Once upon a time
I was, it seems like 100 years ago,
on an old fashion cargo ship, the carried all sorts
from potatoes, flour, machine parts, plastic flowers,
and tinned fruit, meat, and hats for the wife of the president
in Honduras.
For some reason, there was a door in my store room
it led into a cargo hold I filled the larder till it looked
like a corner shop. My task was to keep the cost of living down,
and the captain got a telegram from the company complimenting
me on keeping the cost down.
When the ship birthed in some obscure port, the unloading
took a long time and there was time to go ashore
have a bit of fun and a good steak with wine at a restaurant.
I was twenty-five and had a hell of a time, but nothing
lasts forever, the ship was sold to a Greek shipping company
and we all had to go home.
We always gotta give America
her ego massage
Put cucumber visions in her eyes,
gentle finger her a comforting mirage
Lady Liberty likes you to give her
a righteous back rub
Tell her how beautiful she looks,
and how much
she's adored and loved
While her children gives your children
the Ugly American hate snub
Telling them to go back to their dung holes,
for they all be deplorable beetle bugs
But the ones she truly shuns
are the bastard black raisins in the sun
Those dark sardines who were tightly packed
in a dungeon cargo hold
on a profiteering, merchant slaver run
We always get rubbed the wrong way
We always labor overtime with low pay
We always get the smiley eyes and empty wage raise
We get the hollow words and the vacuous handshake
We receive the taser kiss on the face
We get the welcoming police bullet embrace
We receive the penitentiary guest place
We get the bare minimum assistance everyday
We always get rubbed the wrong way
We get the promise salt rubbed in our wounds,
from 400 lashes of yearly neglect
Which is the cruelest massage one could ever get
Clink-clink
Black panther eyes peering
thru the concrete canopy
What do they see in the blood-smoke midnight air ...
safari sound waves shocking,
moving the ghetto leaves
What do the tree leopard tar-pitch, onyx ears hear ...
a white rhino with a little horn tooting
Bars and Stripes liberty hypocrisy
Star Spangled dirge played off-key at the trade fair
Clink-clink
Sea Leviathan white whale with the little blowhole,
sending suffocating sounds
leading down to the burning belly of hell
Muzzled lions and lionesses in the dark cargo hold,
chained to the smell drowns
of fear excrement waist-high in a caged cell
400-year journey on a piss-poor promise of equality —
build the racial Wall higher:
says the Tower barker, spitting in the tiny trumpet
Clink-clink
Gold-plated iron ankle bracelets ... slavery jewelry,
place a bid to the auction buyer
Give the seller a pound of the flesh, free-labor sweat
Clink-clink
Don’t think ... run when you hear this
coming calamity chain-pain sound
Head skin deeper into the safe urban jungle,
until the little horn fades
into muted white noise background
Deadly chemicals
parked in the cargo hold
of an American military plane
Destination: the jungles of Vietnam
Guerillas in the mist ...
communism with an Asian face
is on the uptick
It's the 60's, man
Free love don't like none of that
paid warring
Progressive rock-n-roll got a hippie soul,
but seeing flags burning make patriotic blood boil
Peaceful protesting
on college campuses all across the American soil,
a generation of Flower childs blossoming
While over in Vietnam,
war is cultivating a crop of pain
Weather forecast says: each mourn come dawn,
expect sixteen tons of napalm rain
Tell me who fights a war whose goal is not to win,
but to just stick to the failed mission
Every evening fuel up the planes,
to dust crop those fields of burning dreams
Orders are to ratchet up the suffering,
by laying down more napalm rain
As the next generation of Flower children start bursting,
old hearts wonder:
Will those new killing fields ever grow hope again?
Alone at the Seaside.
Sunday, October sunlight, I´m at the marina admiring
a boat made of wood, hull, deck and the bridge; I was
dreaming of mystical islands in the Pacific. An elderly
man near me spoke, said it was his ship, it had been
a fishing vessel…Asked if I wanted to come onboard
and have a look…Yes thank you. Everything onboard
was spick& span, but noticed the freezer in the pantry
took too much space. The cargo hold of his vessel was
converted a salon, but why all those black silk pillows,
on sofas and chairs? Thought it sinister. The man was
standing too near me taking up my pace and breathing
my air. Back on deck he invited me for an afternoon trip,
but told him I had to go home for my tea. Driving home
I thought of the freezer again, perhaps he wanted to lure
to the open sea throttle me with one of the black pillows
cut me into pieces and put each part in nice plastic bags with
name tags on, say, left leg, shoulder bone, thigh and foot.
use them as bait when he went shark fishing. Once again
my hunch had saved my life.