Long Cough up Poems
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Suppose we ran it by a friendly Martian
(I’d say “by Martial”, but he wouldn’t be gentle).
You crave Armani, Hugo Boss, Versacci and
that Hilfiger who’s naff, naff. Are you mental?
This myth of exclusivity’s juvenile
(I’d offer “Juvenal”, but you’d refuse).
They’re mass-produced, ubiquitous, stock-piled,
your Sarah Jessica Parkas, Jimmy Shoes.
The Martian, then. We wrap ourselves in rags
to ward off cold, conceal the family jewels,
but put a brand name on those skirts and bags,
you’ll cough up ten times more. “You bloody fools!”
Apartheid is an evil thing, agreed?
South Africa once practised it. You struck.
You staked out embassies, until the blacks were freed.
Embargoes, sanctions, boycotts – oh, such pluck!
But none of you’s besieging Tel Aviv.
Our Martian’s wondering what the difference is.
Ramallah’s raped without a by-your-leave,
but you’re at Burghley, knocking back bucks fizz.
Perhaps we can’t extinguish all life’s fires.
Perhaps compassion tires, and needs its pauses.
Or is there just a chance that it transpires,
there’s such a thing we’ll call “designer causes”?
He knew the hearts of his wives, and yes, he had two.
They were hard and mean, and not easy to impress.
He knew he had to cough up some real money to please both.
So, he maxed out one credit card on one.
And to the other he deeded his house.
He did these things to keep them happy,
so, they would be kind to his daughter Maribella.
Maribella was the love of his life.
At three, she was happy with a cardboard box and a hazel bush stick.
He brought her both, and she played for hours.
Giggling and laughing, loving her daddy like no one else did.
I love this box Daddy!
I love this stick Daddy!
I love you Daddy!
All of his wishes came true daily when he saw his baby.
He did not care about anything else, for this was the top of the mark.
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
The cimmeran pole
that clasps a hoop stands crooked.
MY tall spine curves, bends
from the pressure of animus.
Or assault. The dirty net,
tat by machines that
may spin the workers'
story-another country-
the carvings of a life
deeper than a grave.
A hare, the color of sand
with white sea glass - my
confidante-bites a stygian
hued root, straight as a tenet;
yet a bitter taste
like bile, maybe... drought
dry. There IS dust we
might inhale, in a room
un-swept. We might choke;
should then cough up. Perhaps spit
out ideas of greed;
stand upon cracked
skin-tints of community-
clench our fists, to crush.
A clot bars the zoetic
flow of life; we want them to burst...
like Summer flowers,
sunlight on diamonds
that surface from within a mine;
like POP culture?
Unbelievable how difficult it is to see
Eyes looking in different directions,
Seeing diverse things, seeing paradigms others do not
Unbelievable confusion, as we diversify and divide.
The world seems to be cracking.
The haves, have nots, have tos, haven’ts, it is so strange now.
Unbelievable how difficult it is to breathe.
Lungs clogging up and dying, people giving up quickly,
Not caring if they stay or go, willing themselves somewhere else.
Unbelievable how easy it is to just say forget it. Let me be.
The world seems sad, disappointed, discouraged.
The asthmatics, the Covid 19’s, the cancer patients.
Unbelievable how divided we are these days.
We do not even struggle to breathe the same air any more.
We are each sitting at our own device, breathing life into avatars.
Our best friends are online. Some of us have never met them.
We do not picnic, party, or play.
Unbelievable how bogged down and tired we are.
Unbelievable how many pills we are taking.
How many treatments we have.
How many maladies and ailments we cough up.
How much sadness and sorrow there is.
Maybe we are tired of the divisions and the unsatisfying diversions.
We are coughing up our own lungs, wanting to breathe again.
Many of us not remembering how.
Miny marshmallow minds, are minding the store.
Their heads are on fire, still they come back for S'more.
In the heat of it all, they can't find the door.
Till their milk chocolate membranes, ooze out on the floor.
They cough up graham crackers all over our shoes.
Their breath reeks of cigars and cheap homemade booze.
With heads still on fire, they can't follow the clues.
Just keep marching side by side, and two by twos.
S'more the merrier? Well, I know that's what they say.
But, how many more marshmallow minds are melting today.
Maybe we should put out the camp fire, be on our way.
Before all we can taste, are muck, sand, and clay.
—A Cry from the Rubble to the Thrones of Power—
In Gaza, the sky does not fall—
It rains fire.
Children sleep beneath concrete tombs,
Mothers wail into hollow winds,
And the olive trees
Bleed.
A boy holds his sister’s severed hand
Like a prayer,
Like a memory,
Like a question God won’t answer anymore.
America—
Your silence roars like F-16s,
Your aid is not charity,
But crucifixion money.
You kneel in churches of stone and glass,
While funding the shattering of real temples—
Human hearts,
Infant bones,
The dignity of a dispossessed people
Longing for home.
Israel—
You were born from ashes,
But now you breathe fire on those whose only crime
Is remembering too much
About exile.
What happened to “Never Again”?
Is it “Never Again… unless they’re not like us”?
And you—world leaders,
Architects of treaties made of dust,
Diplomats who toast with red wine
While children cough up red foam—
You’ve made yourselves gods
By forsaking God.
Liberation theology says:
If Christ walks the streets today,
He walks barefoot in Gaza.
Not in cathedrals
Nor in congress halls.
He is cradling the dying,
Rising in the rubble,
And weeping over the weapons
Stamped: Made in the U.S.A.
This is not politics.
This is not religion.
This is not history.
This is humanity,
Starving for a voice that speaks truth
Louder than missiles.
We are not asking for favors.
We are demanding the right
To breathe,
To exist without apology,
To bury our dead
Before they are forgotten
By the world’s deliberate blindness.
So rise,
Not in hatred—
But in holy rage.
Speak,
Not with vengeance—
But with vision.
For every Gaza,
There must be a thousand Jerichos—
Where the walls of apathy
Come crashing down
At the sound of our united cry.
Let this be known:
God does not stand with empires.
God kneels with the crushed.
God is not in the drone.
God is in the silence
After the last child falls.
And that silence,
If unbroken,
Will haunt our names
For generations.
Free Palestine.
Not as a slogan—
But as a sacred obligation.
I wish I was still scared of the monsters under my bed,
I wish my biggest fear was still giant sharp teeth,
And I wish I still needed a night light to help me sleep.
I'm still scared of the dark that hasn't changed.
I used to be scared that I wasn't alone but now I I'm completely aware that I am and it's suffocating.
There's so much air to much empty space I'm choking on it,
Choking on something I can't cough up.
Don't get me wrong I still need the fear but I miss when it was innocent.
The fear is better than the sight of my blood,
I've fallen in love but it's not with a person it never will be,
It's with the feeling of fear that's always with me.
Always clawing, always biting, always with a loaded gun I don't know who it's aimed at.
Fear does not have its innocence, it dies for me.
Died to protect me or maybe to kill me,
But I hope one day she finds it again.
BEING A CONFIDENTIAL HUMAN SOURCE WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI BEING APART OF TAKING DOWN MELVIN MAYS AKA M O M M Y EL RULKIN LEADER TRADING WEAPONS FROM LYBIA TO BLOW UP CHICAGO TRANSIT SYSTEM AND GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS IN CHICAGO MY LIFE LIVING ISOLATED IF YOU WILL BEING EXPOSED BY JAMAICAN DEALERS COMMITING IDENTITY FRAUD AGAINST ME OPENED THE DOORS FOR DETROIT HITMAN TO NEED MY DEATH STALKING TERRORIZING ME OBSESSED WITH MY POETRY THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES ORGANIZED CRIME AND CORRUPTION KILLING MR LITTLE MALCOLM X WHILE MY UNCLE THE HONORABLE ELIJAH MUHAMMAD COUGH UP BLOOD IN HYDE PARK BEING FAR FROM HOME JAMAICAN DEALERS ARRIVED TO END MY LIFE MERGING WITH DETROIT HITMAN WHO FAKED HIS DEATH TO PARK AT MY DOOR POINTING ASSAULT RIFLES AT MY DISABLED FAMILY THE ONGOING CONSPIRACY TO KILL AND FBI INFORMANT OPERATION M O M M Y MELVIN MAYES EL RULKIN DIRTY BOMBER I FEEL BLESSED TO BE ALIVE REMINDED OF THE SEVERE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS ON MY LIFE IN FLORIDA WHEN DETROIT HITMAN ARRIVED WITH JAMAICAN DEALERS IDENTITY FRAUD OVER A TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLAIM IN ORLANDO ON MY BEHALF PAYING OFF THE PEOPLE I MAY KNOW A CONSPIRACY FIRD MOTIR COMPANY DEFECTIVE AIRBAG BOMBS PERSONAL INJURY CLAIMS STARTED WITH IGOU STEVEN WOODY AFTER THAT GID ONLY KNOWS WHO THEY HIRED TO CONTINUE RECIEVING FUNDS ON NY BEHALF MEANING ONLY A DETROIT WISEGUY OBSESSED WITH MY POETRY MY LIFE HENCE MY DEATH GOD BLESS AMERICA
Talking to you was always a waste of time, you didn't listen at all.
Talking to you was worthless, it was like talking to a brick wall.
I showed you a movie about a young boy who took drugs and then drowned in the swimming pool.
I thought it would scare you into stopping your drug use but you laughed instead, that wasn't cool.
Many years ago when my brother was at your house when we were young,
you used something that made you cough up black stuff out of your lungs.
That should've showed you how bad and dangerous drugs are, it should've been a wake up call.
But you continued to do drugs, talking to you was a dumb idea, it was like talking to a brick wall.
You would use any drug that people would give you if they said it would get you high.
You got your hands on the wrong stuff and your luck ran out, and it caused you to die.
(This is a true story about my late friend 'JOHN W. BROWN'.)