Hail to the Cheeto-in-Chief

https://mediamatters.org/blog/2016/08/18/complete-history-donald-trumps-relationship-white-nationalist-movement/212502

Bambi (new poem)

This is a rough draft. 

BAMBI

At sixteen eye was 

the Prince of air guitar,

a lavender shimmer birthed

by a purple beacon

and nothing was real except 

your half-laced fingers on six strings—

which would not be boxed in.

Suppose heart as an empty room,

a kind of wooden box.

In the wooden box 

U then called home

there was Our Father’s piano,

forbidden as anything in Leviticus,

still U were bold enough to plink

its ivory keys while he was away.

Until he left like a Gypsy moth 

in the cruelest month.

Before U were mine “Skipper”

U were 12 years old 

and neither boy nor girl,

doe-eyed under the halo of an Afro

and crying to be allowed

to return home from a phone booth,

which is not a wooden box,

even in the dying northern light,   

especially since it lacks

the sound sculpture of pianos,   

even a piano warped 

by the purposed rain of memory.

And to be denied,

to sleep on an Aunt’s couch

or in Bernadette’s basement and hear 

Louisiana tease your tongue

like a bigger kid on the playground

and hear that all soul-sounds

even the bass below, 

can be guitar-sounds

because guitars are wooden boxes

with tuneable strings

on which the Grand Progression 

could one day mean your dovely strut 

up the ladder of the charts.

There is the missing kiss 

of your mother to sing of. 

How she tried to satisfy herself 

in the arms of another man,

her hair falling down

and her heels rising up.

Does down elevate up or up elevate down,

this question ping-pongs

into the paisley swirled sky,  

No matter. Baby, you're a Star!

Grand Marshal of a parade of women,

all that applause drowning out

the insomniac feedback of night.

A sound round as counterfeit Vicodin,

a hurt that craves the 24 keys of dawn.

Neither cocaine nor cold coffee

can hide the soft hammers

of the blue piano on your strings

but now U are an ocean of violets in bloom,

marshaled and amped up

because aren't amps boxes too?

U are amped louder and louder

into Jimi’s rising heir,

portrait of the Artist purple as paradox—

desire hums around your head,

bathes U in a sonic scent,

an untongueable symbol being brushed,

the most Beautiful One,

eyes lined with dark longing

until Daddy’s black piano 

becomes a mere wooden box of air

on an elevated stage,

although not the way

an elevator may sometimes 

be a wooden box. 

The paisley stage is empty now.

Filled with an air of Cloud guitar

the stage is dear and dearly beloved. 

The only home

U could always return to.

Eye never wanted U 2 be 

my beacon, or lover.

Eye only wanted 2 be

some kind of friend. 

I want to take this time out to thank everyone for your birthday well wishes. In lieu of posts on my wall though I'd very much appreciate it if you could just do one random act of kindness for a stranger. 

August afternoon-

The endless ripple

of a single smile

When Doves Fly

2:29 pm at my boy Barry's house in Brigantine, and I grab my black Eddie Bauer jacket I got at Harrahs Casino and dash out the door because the 501 to Atlantic City is due at 2:30 and I rush to corner, one hand deep in my right pocket for my change as the bus trembles up, then realize I only have $20 bills which yesterday the Treasury Dept. announced will carry a portrait of Harriet Tubman on with Andrew Jackson's now on the backside and the bus glides past and I curse our 7th President, only it's the kind of day that Bill Withers sang about and the next bus isn't due for an hour, so I stride and revise a poem in my head which I read last night at the World Above reading at Dante Hall, one of the best open readings I've been to since Its Your Mug shut down and I change the poem's title to "Portrait of the Artist as a Starfish in Coffee" because my cousin Derri Dias (who is a gorgeous actress in LA) posted a video on Facebook of Prince on The Muppets Tonight performing that song which grows on you like the hair in your ears and I decide to change the last two lines from a simile to a metaphor by cutting out the word "like" which I suddenly don't, and now I pass a brother out front of his house digging a hole in the grass between the sidewalk and the street as if putting in a new mailbox or planting a small tree or maybe just burying something we won't mention and I turn on to Brigantine Blvd. which is limited to one lane because a crew clad in yellow T-shirts with lavender lettering that reads "TCM Paving" is redoing the asphalt and I want to pull out my iPod but my Shure 535e earbuds are too good at isolating outside noise which is dangerous on this busy street and now I'm rising up one side of the bridge between Brigantine and Absecon islands and I peep white birds wheeling in the sky and that signs on the Borgata Casino and Harrahs are both purple and just as I crest the bridge and get buffeted by the gusts Brigantine is famous for, there's a notification on my iPod Touch that Derri has commented on her FB post,  "It's not fair that he's gone" and I stop to check Twitter and Prince is trending with over 2 million tweets and I peer over the railing and consider the sunlit water making its way to the Back Bay reflecting all that purple light . . .

National Poetry Month 30/30 Haiku/Senryu

Light April rain-

Our lone purple candle

suddenly gone

Late April dusk-

The shadows slowly bury

a little red Corvette. 

Moonshine

inside the bottle

out of it

April morning-

Cherry blossoms pinken

the snow drifts

Thumb print

on a black fender-

Half Moon

Two weeks into Spring-

already a Cardinal

on the mound

Opening Day-

The Groundskeeper throws out

the rock salt

All hail

what follows the slow clap

April thunder

Back from the casino

with a single white chip-

April Moon

Last blaze of orange

at the Farmer's Market-

a robin alights

The long note 

in her last kiss

-Red Zinfandel 

Dmeentia-

At the start of the last verse

she mouths the words

Late night poker game-

She asks if I'm All In

Hibiscus flower-

The tremble of her sleeve

In the ocean breeze

My hairline 

the waters of the back bay

in sync

April sunset-

A last slice of orange

opens the lips

Latest Haiku / Senryu

After The Love Has Gone-

The empty mouth of

an album cover

August dusk-

A sandcastle melts

in the rain

Empty Starbucks-

The steady drip drip

of a woman's tears

Morning fog

While waiting for the bus

Fifty Shades of Gray

Filling the beach 

then all the benches-

Snow flurries

Winter storm Jonas-

Too much whipped cream atop

the hot chocolate

First day of Spring-

A robin pecks

crack vials

Shards of glass-

The glazed eyes

of a deer

Four AM-

Even the crack heads

yawn

First day of Pre-K-

His backpack crushed

by a hug

New haiku senryu (and revisions)

Ziggy Stardust fell

Ground Control to Major Tom

Planet Earth is blue

kissing

your napping face-

Summer lightning

Post Burial

The old folk play

Spades

July sun

A new basketball

too big to palm

Autumn afternoon-

the mailman sorts thru

the yard

Hopscotch-

earthworms curl

on the sidewalk

Deep Insomnia-

A neighbor's 

alarm

Wine glass-

The long tilt of

Her lips

April winds-

Spending a new 

umbrella

The white king 

rocks under attack-

March wind

Talking to herself

in two coats

July haze

White cat

under the Laundry’s awning-

Spring shower

Snow flurries

from nose to shovel

beads of sweat

country curve

A goose in the road

honking

quivering 

in the front yard-

frosted grass

A belly 

swollen with gurgles-

New Moon

Staring

into a smartphone-

sunset

Crescent moon-

A sliver of cake wanes

in the urinal

Under the moonlight

the serious moonlight-

Marsh reeds dance

Interview-

The poet says

"No comma"

Morning fog

Lingering on the tongue

Earl Grey

Two Trains Running-

Boyfriend on hold

for the husband

Words wrap

around six croaker-

Muhammad Speaks

August afternoon-

The dog licks

an empty bowl

Purring 

under the quilt-

Not my cat

Waiting

in a long line for work-

Black ants

Cherry blossoms

glisten with dew-

New lipstick

Memorial Day-

Googling a knot

for the hanging chair

Horizon

A railing

Boardwalk

The last edit

written in red-

Paper cut

First trimester-

The kick of the shrimp

curry

Visiting Room phone-

The long echo of that

last sentence

A quick-blown kiss

high heels its way into

the Etheridge night

Late students-

Missing the

Syllabus

Pine Barrens-

A buzzsaw cuts into

the silence

Full moon-

The sudden O of 

a Glock's muzzle

Low tide-

The ocean also has

Morning Breath

Call to prayer-

The transit bus stops

kneels

Both queens

off the board-

Chess widows

April drizzle-

The gutters gush with

cherry blossoms

Unable to shake

the strength of his hand-

Poker nemesis 

Nightfall-

The descent of a tear

gas canister

Riot police-

A broken arrow of

overhead geese

Peeking into

the abandoned cars-

Low winter sun

Airport Terminal-

The morning sky dons

a blue cap

Bumping

into the chairs-

Blind Date

New Years Eve-

Fewer and fewer cubes

in the glass

Winter Solstice-

The long blackness of

a Stretch Limo

Pebble in a puddle-

The moon under a scrim of clouds

Grayish beard-

Yet still playing 

with action figures

of speech. 

December night-

A little bit of Frost

on the syllabus

Hung jury-

None of the strung up sneakers

are gray

Full Moon-

A clean look at the rim

under the lights

Shrimp Gumbo-

Waiting for the flame

to rise

Casino exit-

Losing everything 

but my shadow

Half a crayon-

Our son gets a taste

of the blues

Brick wall

written in cursive-

His pee

December 1st-

Footsteps falling

in the rain

Trailer Park

A murder in broad daylight-

Crows on a branch

Outside the club

Stamped on the back of a hand

Full Moon