Me and Walt Whitman .. .


me and walt

We grew out of Long Island, Manhattan
It is where my father died, I am not afraid
to speak of it, my father wrote of Watergate
me and Walt we wrote it down together

Walt and I we covered so much ground
the two of us wit’ a pair of dark lurcher hounds
Long Island is pretty skinny like those dogs
down the road to Nassau County and Ronkonkoma

I saw fishermen mending nets by Peconic Bay
it wasn’t Galilee or Gethsemane, the Peconic River
one guy called Peter he was a kind of rock
I thought I’ll write my story written round about it

another guy called John kept cropping up
he wore an artistic smock, lay his head down
on Jesus breast, out here that’s considered cute
it took me a long while to get here but I made it

I made it through to Montauk Point then out to sea
to catch a Bluefin Tuna out of Babylon in a schooner
I saw guys on the pier fishing despite what they knew
my brother was a sailor, a quarterback, a pitcher

You’re cutting the ropes Natasha, set yourself free
i’ll fix you a drink of long island tea on ice
he’ll settle down with a good book and a cocktail gin
Treasure Island, Tales of Ulysess, Moby Dick

I’ve really had enough of living on the land
I’ll live out on the sea as an old man like Hemmingway
Walt Whitman, me and Bobby McGee, dreamed I
made love to Janis Joplin in Saratoga, U.S.A.

I walked as long a while as down Jones Beach
where the sand is soft to touch, as a Kanthalloor peach
where people gather to stretch out, have fun, play ball
where multitudes gather in the sun

I walk with Whitman, Adeline, my sight hound, is a picture
I set her off the lead, she runs and runs, later she returns
there my uncle Art I see he is fishing with a lure for fluke
bluefish, blackfish, striped bass, he so better than my father

My father and Walt they never met, not that I ever knew
knew this or that, that hangdog moon, the august sun’s cravat
its hot as hell but Walt Whitman is a clever fellow
he tries to teach me words have value, they have rhyme

I’ll walk wi’ Whitman night or day he does not mind
he would take my arm when I have no sight, walk on towards the light
the sun above Patchogue when we are brothers
enjoy lunch at the Oyster Bar, dressed crab and piquant peppers

I walk with Whitman to my fathers grave we bow, we talk
we wonder, what gets upside a man’s head
that makes him act unkind, what demons live inside his mind
blinded souls, there are seabirds, herring gulls on Long Island

Life trips by, O the sadness of the human condition
the constant fight to wrestle down the bleakness of traditions
father took a journey to Manhattan west of Paumonok
he was following a dream that left us floating in slipstream

I been floating ever since around the headland
in a canoe with Walt Whitman and a Seatauket indian
indigenous and free as my father wished to be
the day he left our mother, Boo, the mockingbird and me



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Always begin again .. .



Have you seen the swifts departing or heard their solemn call
across the housetops, the smudge of bronze-brick chimneys
a hoar frost hanging grey, the scoop skin of ripe, wild blueberry
we had been dovecote lonely while nights prussian swallowed
hard the scuttle in my clothed throat I could not easily find words

I never dreamt of such regret, squeezing through scaled memory
faint illusions, ghostly demons with faces that I could recognise
who smiled inside my dread, rebounding from the sides nightly
left by the summered pathway of my long, interrupted childhood
those sober dreams were animated films driven, lost, fragmented

where I would wake silently the bleak sound of sobbing in my head
I was often on a schooner, in imagined tales, as a sharpened knife
as a skulking stowaway always troubleshooting escaping my anxiety
in the midshipman’s parlour, at their salted table, I read the stories
stains in the grainy, weathered oak, written with punishment of blood

the sharpest tales, the ones in the shadow of green, refracted light
confused the bottle with my life, I the priest confirming my own rites
the horrors of golden piss take control, I see the rats, gnawing teeth
the hill I climb always taller, leaning back, a burden I push on wheels
tracks are laid behind me, the blackened engine, honking, gaining

the contrasts of light, shade, beauty, lethal cuts from a blade of grass
trauma confused by grace should never wear a happy face or smile
always the sentinel, grim as icy water we wade through, explorers
who reach the island, a shot in the veins from a non-religious tract
a pioneer pamphlet, you write your seminal piece and I am pregnant

I am adorned with wraiths, seaweed of the deepest, blackest seas
where monsters gather, lamplights on Poseidon, ugliest of brothers
all this I feign carry on my itching, lashed back, turned against treason
I, once a small child with Marvel comics, sugar puffs, tooth fairies
stand a metalled man, a trophy of the Greeks, my cheeks blushed


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I wrote 34 lines on missing you .. .

I wrote 34 lines on missing you .. .

…   …   …

I want it all
I want the lot
I want it cold
I want it hot
I want it double, double capuchino
I want twins nestled in my cot
I want a double in my hand
to hear them live, my favourite band
I want the future, I want the past
I want that last biscuit in the tin
a never-ending bottle of gin
I want total absolution from all my sin
I want my hunny here with me now!
sitting softly on my knee
I want to kiss her, hear her say
tell you what baby
lets never go away, again
come back baby, come back hun
since you went sweetie
there ain’t no sun
or fun or any other rhythm
I even considered joining
that oddball schism
down the road
I want joy and I want world peace
want these nightmares to cease
so come back baby
come back now
I’ll rub your back
I’ll rub your feet
I’ll suck real hard on your teets
and we can carry on. as before
I want you baby
I just can’t love you any more


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The Paper Boy .. .



paper sack


…   …   …


.                   I had been a compulsive since I was seven

   or was it seventeen?

   we all spend so much time alone

   with Chopin and the flowers


The first time I had an erection I became a man

   and when I saw my mother’s breasts

   I fell in love with her

   not the women in Spick n’Span


Those ladies were nowhere near

   with their plastic smiles

   grey-toned faces

   their airbrushed teets


I hid them in a bag at the back of the chimney

   a budding sleuth

   a sleuth and a gangster by thirteen

   hanging more black and white pictures


On my dull, wood-chip, emulsion wall

   pictures of Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel,

   all these were perfectly acceptable

   not the women of my masturbations


My early teenage loves

   my pictures of Lilly stuck up high in the chimney

   with the dead starlings, the decaying soot

   two Topo Gigio keyrings we stole from Woolworth’s


Me and a ginger gangster called Ian 

   who introduced me to wanking back in ’63

   we had a kind of wankers club

   curious boys would gather to learn


We held our pepees in our hands

   it seems now kinda sordid

   it didn’t then, rubbing out some pleasure

   from undeveloped glands


Boys did it all the time

   later we found girls

   who would do it for us

   with your hands stuffed inside their bras


Then we tried out rubber johnny’s they often tore

   leaked the messy evidence upon the carpet floor

   always too excited but then you had to wait

   to see if you were mummy’s or daddy’s


Getting married at seventeen which so many did

    in war-torn Britain with the depression lifting

‘  ‘we never had it so good’

   but that was much later in the teenage cycle


At eleven years I started dropping papers under-age

   my canvas sack hung round my neck

   cowhorn handlebars, my statement of intent

   all the while my eyes held open with sticks


My mind racing with the troubles on at home

   the shouting and the arguments, the fights

   the true sense of loss, little father-love

   then suddenly my bike was gone


Taken from me by the big red bus

   the type that comes in threes

   while I was sleep-walking

   it might have been a hearse


The one thing that was fortunate

   I was not riding it, but walking it

   it ended up mangled real good

   contention continued at home under the hood


Yet by fifteen we were knocking back

   full-blown beers at the local drinking-hole

   where the landlord who had weak eyes

   served us two-bob pints of light and bitter


So we wandered home to mommy

   with the stars in our skies

   trundled off to work on Monday

   followed by night-class chasers


Its no wonder later I began to roam

   collecting female conquests like badges

   three at a time, a gigolo in my teens

   in chequered shirt, skinhead hair, high-masted jeans


Yet still I was a paper boy,

   for ten shillings a week

   I wrestled with my world

   that was cold, empty, bleak




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Alone With Void .. .


It was not that I began to hear voices
which signalled my anxiety
it was more tears that began to flow
at really most anything
the line of a song
an irrational concern
for someone I did not know

The sadness, the secret drinking
I made sure I did not show
emotionally unstable
I thought they would say
they, parked up in my street
they heard every word
that now seems so absurd

Somewhere down the way
the cable became disconnected
from the speaker – no sounds!
your chin hits the ground
you still hear music playing
with one speaker
you just know something is not right

Bubblegum solutions get you by
you can hear people talking
about you in your mind
the urge to cry always stronger
a tendency to lie to yourself
drinking is an option
it comes earlier each day

Finally, talk with a doctor
an angel on my phone
she is able to deliver the perfect line
mister-e you have an illness
I prescribe this solution
it is then I admit my condition
and the river soon runs dry

Days, months, hours are all the same
when you’re alone with emotional pain
that silent ache within your brain
you’re reaching out
through your doubts
to a boy you once knew
who isn’t you but just a shell

It is never gone this cloud hanging
throughout the world over
there are people in a worse position
yet the function of our versatility
interrupted, exposes us
to a dangerous fragility
we never should ignore


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The Laurel Crypt

revision: 9/11/21

.   .   .


By the way of Dallinson’s dark alley
I skipped the journey of the cold returning
tortured souls I thought, their coats heavy
with night, the burden of their daily wages
I wrested my eyes, the lights, the sticky rain

To journey for one minute doubtless, free
down still cobbled, quiet passages where 
I hoped again to see my love, offer friendship
if she could still sense fragrance behind the walled
floweres of my desire, Jasmine, Lilac, Laurel beds

This para-cloak of wetted stones melancholy
my collar pulled round, I the thief who creeps
in memory of a much sweeter time, no injury, no folly
a sunshine lisp and blessed her summer dress
clean smile, breathing eyes, hair natural as honey

The august of my thunder- set, there is no losing
as peoples chant their holly wishes, exchange kisses
lightning strikes best when unbeguiled but precedes
the deepest drama, that rumbles under, if only love
did not carry hurt to others, happiness which smothers

Starved of light the key now lay within my pouch-
pocket oozing, surrendered of my choosing to unfold
the sight of my love after all this unnecessary time
the clock on the highroad of the mundane chimed nine
and I tippy-toeing, a street-bum in the ashy shadows

I had time to contemplate my dark-wood choices
watch the flames turn rosewood to ebony then redolence
still chived of the sweetness of a kiss that woke the thunder
of those many conversations of bliss, nought happened
but now they would, I would see my Freya, norse princess

Two sailors are approaching dressed in alcohol and cheer
I pass, stepping to the left, bereft of virtue continuing
the leaning steps distended, another light showing, slants 
grey raindrops, turns this medieval scene Karloffian the night
Shakespeare is rising, attention mused, another passer-by

Brianna, my age to thee you said was too advanced, prior
though might I have been thy wedding charm, thou the new 
dressed in gentian blue, adoration thy embroidered garter
I was away in my revelries, the rain descending came stronger
woke me to my task, the diablos leering, my angels protect

The flowered wall lay silently to the left precluded by my camber
I caught faint aroma, ambivilent in consequence I was assured
of gesture yet also certain such floweres had long departed
as swallows, the purpled swift, do their nests in gabled rafters
beneath those broken tiles, gutters, in the street they hung over

Like the drunk I found and stepped over, he in blackest coma
besides his girth I found the door, my key to open, step inside
the windows blinded foresaw the cold, clinical light of science
of medicine and I previously assured my angel lay not scarred
within the dormitory of the dead and fallen, the east-wing crypt

The while I intoned so dark a discovery, the picture in my mind
remained the same and blossoming, of days we were alone
the walk by the river, her secret passage she had shown
good-naturedness, quiet contentment yet a patient longing,
dawning of a fervent hope, passion ham-strung, wracked

I slipped, nervous to sound, not ghost nor ghoul but prying eyes
who might not try to understand this tryst with love on sacred ground
as tryst it be were my lover able to welcome me this grainy night
who never welcomed me before but coy mischance accepted
now the dance of our strange romance, her beauty, her loyal beast

This turning of the lever I had reached allowed me breath, belief
I could not contemplate nor anywhere the taint of death
certainly not hers as I scrambled for the door to enter hades
and in the whitest room, the blackness, a briefest lady-shape
draped, daubed by one sheet as my confederate had promised

Hush of night gathers as an orchestra to tune, I the band leader
who raised his arm not to muster yet betray shadows on the wall
they travelled, magnified, the yardarm on a ship a’fore it sails
then the sheet, I yanked it at the corner it fell as rivers to a waterfall
and there she lay as sweet and soft, yet cold and pinched of grey

Her form, as of any other woman, now my torture concluded
upon her face the faintest smile, her hair fell long on morbid sheets
the rest of her now complete, her breasts, her stomach and her valley                     quite how I had imagined her, in life and death, she the perfect lover
I touched the bleaching skin in places believing not that she was dead

I could see visions, angels in attendance, her music a choral cadence
she, more perfect now I thought, I clasped her calmness, her clamminess
lifting her naked torso, stiff like dead branches to me, hot tears spiralling
as early rain spots from a golden cloud with blackened belly, this rain                    falling on her jellied breasts, mounds that held my sad regret closer to me

It came the awe-filled realisation, I lay her gently back upon the
covered slab, her arms awkward, like de-assembling a deck-chair 
a quiet gurgling, acrid smell of death, my Brianna long, since departed
I reached for a petri dish too late, the pallid contents of my stomach
were writhing on the floor, her carcass now mis-shapen, haunting

On leaving Dallinson’s undertakers I caught the menthol in the air
the rain now departed as my love, eucalyptus, lemon and mint
that ionised feeling after-storms will bring I remembered as a child
collecting butterflies with pins, the trick to finish them without distress
or damage, laurel leaves in a glass jar, put them to sleep never to waken

                                                        ©edenbraytoday11.09.2021 (revision 9/11/21)

#Author’s Note :-

Some may view this a morbid tale and yet it is ‘a song of love’.

Although not in any way pictorially related to the horror of 9-11 it is nonetheless, dedicated to all those who lost loved-ones at 9-11 in the strangest and most tortuous of circumstances at the behest of warped minds and the ugliest, most calculating and putrid terrorism the world has probably ever known – although recognising the depravity that humanity is capable of sinking to – I doubt that is really a true statement at all.

On the morning after the horror of 9/11 I spoke with an associate who had lost all his workmates, he had stepped out of the office when the atrocity occurred. Cash was a bright, intelligent, imaginative and enthused young stockbroker – that morning after – his world was destroyed probably for ever – Cash was a muslim, a creative, promising young worker and a very decent human being – my heart goes out to Cash right now wherever he may be and all the lovers, fulfilled or unrequited who lost friends, family and their hopes for humankind that terrible, terrible, terrible sordid day!

I wish you all your still so painful happiness.

– edenbray 11th September 2021 (revision:9/11/21)

illustration – Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais

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Hematoma .. .

hematoma 2

it’s a national hematoma .. .

the phone rang, a voice spoke
but I could not decipher
the identity of the caller
they pronounced my name wrong
the world turns slowly
I don’t think I know you

the video ran, presentation followed
I had not heard of this
particular secret for mankind
it would not be available for ever
the opportunity is closing
I don’t think I understand

the mailer drops upon the floor
I thought we were not
using those anymore
they announced it on the news
to save the planet earth
I get increasingly confused

the telegraph poles next to our land
they are taking them down
and the power lines
running cables underground
the town is now a safer place
I cannot get used to change

the blood that runs within our veins
runs faster everyday
hypertension greater
scientists agree unanimously
carbon emissions must not be
I try to keep the planet healthy



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h0Pℨ – 弗Ki№ – same in any language!


h0Pℨ – 弗Ki№ – same in any language!

Nothing is taboo
or beyond the pale
not one thing is out of reach
your future is in your grasp
possess it, claim it
make it your own

That alcoholism?
you can beat it
that depression you can climb out?
take possession
of your circumstances
however bad they are

Never contemplate
your own suicide
think of those it will hurt
seek help and talk about it
to just one someone
it will help you

Talk to God – if he/she is there
that window in the sky
talk to yourself and remember it is ok to cry
we all need to cry
talk to anyone you can find
will take the time to listen

If you have done wrong
then please confess it
get down on your knees and pray
face the consequences
of your actions man, woman, child
how much worse can it be?

There is a path you can find
there is somewhere, someone
with an understanding mind
this is not all about you anyway
things you may have done
it is all about the children

It is about the future
your God-given mind
whatever you may think or feel
whatever shit you have done
don’t make it any worse
today your life begun!

You say you’re a leopard
you can’t change your spots
you say you don’t believe in anything
well I say you’re a liar and a snake
who needs to change their skin
and start wearing hope-sKin !

hope is the sun in the sky
that one wet tear in your eye
that mangy bird that just flew by
that old woman on her knees
the one cop who isn’t corrupted
by the system

hope is that child playing
the one in a hospital bed
missing an arm, she still manages to smile
that nurse in Afghanistan
that woman crying
whose bad-son is dead

shout about it, talk about it
get your skin out of the air
I’m wearing my new hope-sKin
I’m wearing it on Sunday, this Tuesday
any day – today – hope-sKin!


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Flashlights Over America!



.   .   .

Horizontal, these electric-karma streaks flashing
   the jagged teeth of a leviathan smiling
across the nighttime line running low, above
   the clouded blue-black ink of deepest sea
where fish swarm blind and creatures lived as
   street bums with bottles of darkened spirits
methylated and rolled up in cardboard, newsprint
   they were there all the time on the sea bed
they still are, in doorways to plush accommodations
   but not to welcome warmly anyone to America

Mammy, pappy, imagined the lifelong day
   to live in a hovel in westerland on a spot o’land
they climbed aboard a schooner bound for Nova Scotia
   the yellow sun fell on their valley creating an aura
civilisation moves a pace, mid the gleans and beinns
   oblivious to the march of time and arctic peoples
across the seas or in grand towns, histories form medieval
   not London nor Constantinople but where the buffalo roam
American Indians, tribes, bands, first nation colonials
   they never planned to invite visitors from overseas

Columbus found convolvulus wrapped around it’s spine
   a nation dressed in morning glory at its premiere
gypsy peoples beyond the origins of time knew horror
   before the massacre at high-school Columbine
primitive arrows quivered, the north plateau it shivered
   in windy wastes, moccasined feet, keyholes in the snow
no wild west show or signs given for the way they should go
   Japethites, their journey through time, a peaceful people
indigenous, native, holy, disrespected by their invaders
   characterised by Hickok showmen with tales phoney

Gunshots in Chi-ca-goo, her baby in a papoose
   stay my child before the bluecoats come to plunder
is it any wonder I lay my head down on this land
   separate thought in consideration, thoughts be damned
we carry in our holster recollections of our fathers lands
   the tyranny of the masses bad as conscience sags
at the corral of any nation be it India, Australasia or Siam
   it is a conundrum how any nation may be formed
except we must question how the death of small children
   could be grounds accepted for ought but revolution

How fast they grew, children of our loins, this pioneer land
   its laws, customs, towns and states, America the brave
raped the sea of whales, fought within itself, retired its braves
   who tried to make amends so meekly for the use of slaves
yet when was their freedom considered, torn from other lands
   the mighty dream rolled on, America the free it binds
black man’s wrists with practises, beatings, murders so unkind
   yes cities grew, the dream it never died while the worst bits
America you intended to hide, come clean thou huge imposter
   you were leviathan smiling at the gates with blood in your eyes

America, your searchlights blazing (might) winkle out the lies
   midst global darkness, eliminating treatise you despise
your articles of freedom state reasons to build such beacons
   yet your suburban cops are still an alarming sight to see
within your new, fragile, national identity, incapable of apology
   Maddison’s constitution is creaking at the knees yet
intellects for democracy still agree there is no other banner
   whether star-spangled or plastered with new-left lather
you would rather take a cut-throat to the neck in secret than
   join a private war, your efforts to police the world dying on the floor

Flashlights shine above New York, sirens sound in Connecticut
   waters rise in New Orleans, a teeming monster has evolved
who stepped from out bleach-ed sea to tame the blistered land
   learned to build a concrete utopia in a desert made with sand
walk around on Michigan glass where bottles they are made
   swim in Californ-i-a with silver fish, ride technologies wave
Pittsburgh’s steel is hard as hell, who rang the Philadelphia bell
   on a visit to sweet Virginia, we call on Washington for justice
consecrate the constitution to absolve the terror from your past
   prove your repentance of misdeeds that held the world aghast

When John the Baptist met Salomi no one called him for his role
   in adolescent atrophy, he recognised his time to step aside
ever the black sun falls smoothly from out of western skies
   my alma-mater sings so holy the purple clouds of morning
we see shepherds blush-red warning, stand in a lightening storm
   kiss the clouds of our pollution as they fold us in their arms
America you might still fulfil your mighty dreams of youth
   anoint the crumbling heads of Rushmore’s four to resurrect
begin again to find solutions, your people wait on line
   we still hear your eagle cry, see your flashlight in our sky


Author’s note:~

probably unfinished – am I a republican? – am I a democrat? – am I even an American? – do I believe in America? or democracy? or unity? or humanity? or peoples of the world? or religion? or God? or women, children or men? do I believe? do I have hope? you must choose .. .

#hopeSkin – #hopeSkin – #hopeSkin . .. i do

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converging lines

Nineteen seventy nine…
    talking taken epic art
    take your foot from my collar,
    your hands off my plough
Your armature of gladness
    your courage
          are you listening now?
So, I had looked for a reason
    that was
          more than a feeling
It was 1979, my face
    learned to frown
    that is something you must own

Characterisation attempts to relay
    the essence of trial
    the night time vigil
    a bloodied cudgel
An essay of a borrowed spade
    an ode, a captured smile,
    a long conversation
    with a phone dial’s emery
Like what happened with
    Carmine Galante
          when the pressure was off
    all untouchables become
          touchable and unholy

Khmer Rouge in the news
    the fall of Phnom Penn
          isolation tomorrow enshews
    retreating to the Thai border
          the Pol Pot regime is over
          in Cambodia
Stagnant water smells
    yet the bells tell
          Gerontius is praying well
          at the demise of the Diocese of Cariati

And if I were a happy year
    to borrow moments then laugh it off
A year to remember well
    on the back of a horse called Rubstic
          a slogan horse called Troy
O joy if you were to meet me
    on the other side of the pillow
Where the sun, orange like apricots
    upon the tongue is holy bread
John Paul II off to Poland
    Solidarity brings papal cheer
In the US of A – John Spenkelink no more
    tied to his electric chair
          USA, China – establish
                full diplomatic relations
          with the aid of the United Nations
    China then invades Vietnam
          needs no help at all

Jimmy Carter tries
    to bring the hostages home
          Dukes of Hazzard debut on CBS
              the Happy Meal is born
    In Wigan miners die
These were the days that widows still cried
    your bees run out of hunny
          your hot summer
    Pink Floyd get it in the can
          Phi’rr’ips! the compact disc peepul’
              consign vinyl to ‘the Wall’

1979 – with the tape’s still running
    politicians believing
          you can still win with cunning
Ayatollah Khomeini back in Tehran
    that’s in Iran
          where he is creating a Council
          of the Islamic Revolution
Somali voters approve
    a liberal constitution
          meanwhile back in London
          IRA bombers kill Airet Neave
          then later Louis Mountbatten

In the east or in the west
    babies continue to be born
          brother wants his little sister
    Abba release chiquitita
          its the International Year of the Child
    Nickelodeon arrives

Josef Mengel becomes no more 
    while out swimming
          the death-stroke
    not such bad a way to go
          for an angel of death
          not gasping for breath
    in a gas chamber
Montenegro has a shudder
    earth shares the darkest of human secrets
          that are not secret’s anymore
Heart of Darkness
    Making Movies
    on the red side of a bus
          Josef Conrad’s novella
          in the hands of Ford Copola
  Apocalypse Now, in Me-k-ico
        428 million gallons of crude oil
              spill out in the sea
          and snow falls in the Sahara

Greenland getting autonomy
    from Denmark
          not particularly
          good news for me
    the modern world keeps on turning
          people’s passions
              feelings burning
    Klansmen shoot
          to kill 5 marching workers
          of the communist party
          at a death to the clan rally
          in Greensboro, Carolina
    Gay marchers lead the way
          in Washington, DC
    ‘Guardian Angels’ forming
          crime fighters swarming
          an army of unarmed vigilantes
          in New York City

Across the universe
    Pioneer on a probing mission
          misses Saturn by 13, 000 miles
    where no man has gone before
          in the same year as the groovy
          ‘Startrek the Movie’
    and still the pope has time to travel
    to Mexico and New York City’s
        a tornado hits in Wichita Falls
              and 42 lie dead

This motion of change
    not a year like any other
          not one we can smother
    charter, steal or barter
          with another year of horror
              from another pack of days
          sealed, clean, unused
    waiting for the dealer
          to pick through the wager

1979, you leave me rasping
    careless of any purpose
    candid in my expectations
    waiting like the frog, inept
    who is alive in water boiling
    with no concept of fear
    or alarm or desire to escape                         

                            © edenbraytoday12.05.2021


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