A poem for the commune.

Please put all of your flags on this uptown sidewalk
And allow anyone their revenge

There is three of me in america

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

Prison guard shadows                                                                               Remind me of                                                                                     Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill  

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise
A lake for a Black Panther Party

. . . except the artist got paid today. This is the part of the art referred to as the “new junkie’s angst”

A surrealist lies to their self about political structural rebirth:                  Writes, “The government senses shape and color again                                                                           — Ideological compensation . . . and further, a new
                                  description of Watts prophesy

This is the part of the art where clearly it is reality and not
         the artist’s take on reality that has disrespected itself

There is four of me in america

This is the part of the art where we almost introduce a father

Exhausted activists write gun classes into their stage plays.

Face down, you are a midsize activist file 

The poet takes over for his former self

“The secret to writing poems is to not deflect.

If you do not know anything about the color blue,
don’t go calling yourself a child at heart.

If you have never improvised an elevator ride,
don’t go calling yourself in need of prayer.”

I am the worst of your weapons, Lord

Activists Never Found,

My grandmother sees it first    
The cop reads it when he retires