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