The Red River Flood

So quietly Moses murdered their sons
By bringing a plague protected by blood.
Now those same ones, the enemy's kin
Are a dying mother and her unborn child
Stuck in checkpoint traffic, being searched
For bombs or IEDs by paranoid men
Protecting their land.

What was covered in stone is now
Covered in dust and the river of blood
Is no longer the Nile.
Slowly it spread underneath the
Boughs and onto the banks of the
Mississippi and the Liffey to be
Quenched by those who'd rather be alone.

Now rabid men push fire in the streets
And throw their homes for some
Covenantal cause they read in a book.
Freedom, for now, is the right to be dead
Or the right to be loud, but not to be heard.
So stand on the banks and the acres of blood
And pray to a God who's too scared to look.

Going 75 on 94

I smile at the smell of chicken shit
And hear him say 'we're almost home'
As I fight the force and weight of day.
A single streak of golden ink has
Seen us all in some strange evolution
Of blue and red and two kinds of silver,
While whitewashed walls just over the ditch
Have somehow contained a creature
So easily stirred by the pitch
Of horns and humming wheels.

Pull out this piece of mundane earth
And call it constant, unmoving while
I have moved, too busy to notice it,
Most likely going over the speed limit.

The Bat Mobile

The Bat Mobile was a mid-80's Mazda
That was white enough to showcase rust
Like a spaghetti sauce stain
On a starched white shirt.

And while we waited for the daily defrost
I'd watch you blow your smoke-like breath
Into our gloves to warm them up.

Your sidekick always sat shotgun
To watch you shift and pretend
We were chasing the Joker, or the Penguin,
Or some evil villain that wouldn't escape.

We never installed that ejector seat
So now it's buried in some garbage heap.
Where rust is just rust, and a car is just a car.

Everyday at 9 and 1

When you wipe someone's ass
Because they can't stand up
There's a strange sense of power
Over all the fault and frailty
That's found in man's demise.

And when you watch the winter fade
Into the brown, dead and empty ground,
There's still a parasitic hope
That might be found in broken veins
That shed before the virus came.

So all that comes with spring emerged
Into a life that found its place
Among nature's bright and colorful wings,
But things will change for all of this
Will seem as though we don't exist.

No one makes plans and detailed maps
To bring the wild bird to bear
Its shattered wings and try to fly
From empty tree to empty tree.
We cannot know it longs to fall.

Now twice a day for many years
Some will hear a piercing sound
That makes them hesitate in fear
Of dodging all the flying fists
And looking sickness in the eye.

An Empty Riot, An Empty Seat

On innocent streets the pavement bears
The helpless weight of children
Dressed in golden pride, not yet
Faded by the rigors of a real winter.

So march young man.

Then follow footsteps that inevitably lead
To an ancient teat that's been sucked dry
By generations who jump in and drown,
Waiting for you to pull them out.

So march young man.

Make your sign and get in line.
For the right of every man is no longer
Strength but peace of mind, while freedom
Begs but is denied by itself.

So march young man.

Shout at the boarded up windows and doors.
Scream at the ones who can't be ignored.

March young man, then fall on your sword.

An Expatriate's Prayer

God bless the old oak alone among the pines.

Whose bitter sap poisons those who try

To bury seeds but bleed into soil

Bitter, dead and dry.

God bless the lonely weed springing through the cracks.

Barely living between the lines

Of shapes that make a worn out path

To how we are defined.

God bless the hollow shell buried in the sand,

Waiting for the tide to take in all

The life that dives inside to

Keep himself awake.

And God bless the broken man swallowing his pride.

He might as well be deaf and dumb

To some of those that claim to feel

But always have been numb.