Eugene in 1965

It was damn near midnight
As a black woman walked into the
Convenient store on Franklin Boulevard
She was singing Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit"
And the clerk glared at her when she walked in.
She looked around the store to kill time
And to wait for the long line to die down

After a minute she approached the counter
And ordered a pack of Newport’s
But the man continued to glare
He was six feet tall and White
He looked down at her and said
Sorry, we’re all out of Newport’s
But she could see them right there

So she asked for a pack of Parliaments
And he said they were out of those too

In disbelief
She looked him up and down
And said thank you
She walked out of the store
And got into her Plymouth
Her husband
Who was disabled said
Did you get your smokes babe?
And she said
No, they were all out.

The trouble is...

She fell into my tribe of thoughts
like rain
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
assimulating like rain does
into rivers or streams
One flicker of thought will destroy me
A poison that enters my pores
like breath
Love is so easy when it is needed
I turn to her and speak
The trouble is...
there is no "she"
There is only me
alone in my attic
reading letters
of lost
loved ones

So it goes...

I told Death to wait outside
But he protested
for it was raining.
I was with a client, though,
about to rap up a 3 year
relationship. There was no
more need for me, she said.

She was finally happy, and her
connection with her father
was better than ever.
But
I wasn't ready.
Because
in some strange way, this girl,
who held no degrees in my field,
actually
had something to teach.
Like one last life-saving lesson
that would clear up everything else.
But the clouds remained,
she said nothing.
And as she closed the door
I could no longer hear myself think

For Death kept whining
implying that he
was ready for our walk.

While studying

In the library
you can hear
the buzz from the rows of florescent lights,
the pages turning 200 feet away,
and the sniffles that travel from
one scholar to another

But you can't hear the screams
that erupt out of bombed nations
"IN THE NAME OF GOD!"

We can only read about this
with a thoughtful silence
until it crawls into
our own beds.
Where will we sleep then?

Art or Funds?

This...poetry...rash
it. don't...bring in...the cash
it's more like...a scab
That won't heal
a word game
This chase of fame
Won't last
Like a sick child in Afghanistan
Yet...I...Keep feeding
the flame

oh lessons

It's easy to be grateful
When your stomach is full,
Your health is top shelf,
or when the poems float
in like fleets of sails
But true contentment
will withstand
a terminal disease
and three months in the
florescent hospital.

Authority

The men with their words
play the games
those men
Always the same,
"License and Registration"

The badge shines thin
And the recipient
was never interested
in a ticket

But the men with the guns
Hold the rights to your fun

And you go home Drained
They drive away
feeling the same...