Psalms for a Dying People
Free Verse Poems
By the shabby shag covering on the sofa, we sat down in banal
indifference when we turned on Sunday Night Football cheering
like Romans while Nero set aflame candles of flesh, as the
leaping, mangled bodies of our sacrificed youth landed on
altars of vanity called, sports.
All hail, the tightends’ balls a flight as Buckwheat mumbles
his Juliet lines to Alfalfa, ‘Here I is, homio’ and the rocket
man thinks it’s going to be a long, long time before touchdown
brings us back around to normal again, while Broadway felons
need a bite of Spanky’s He-Man Woman Hater’s soapy club
sandwiches.
Slouching in the arm chair of our crafty chiny chin chins, we
doze never knowing the faces of our fathers, only their naked
backsides as our Noah.
Revisiting the abetted waters of Sodom in Mubarak’s midnight
blue police wearing, polished badges of viciousness in
tortured, legal sized bathrooms of the Brooklyn’s 70th Pct.’
rapes and murders recorded in BS degrees of Hanna Montana and
Follywood daughters sing Arabic sirens alive from drugged,
achy- itchy wombs while fathering counsel to heavy weighs
not erased by the bloody mind-Net footage of Michael Steward,
Anthony Baez, Abner Louima, Jonny Gammage, Malice Green and
Amadou Diallo.
Reading while in the squad, W. Lamb’s ‘I Know this much is true’
Sean Bell unfortunately never lived to experience the cold blue
uniforms’ turned backs as 50 expended shells ended his blindside.
Bullets, yet abound in the soul of the grieving, unprotected
witnesses as Martin, still and unfulfilled, waits in a patient
grave for the promises of a perpetual preschooler, amnesiac
nation called America and India banishes the non- violent,
Dalit, for being untouchably black.
Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm’s X marks the spotted wounds of
wars against the sexualized, colored heavens and Our Gang of
Secret Revenger’s tremble like organically groan Alfalfa
propagating,‘The bigger they are, the harder we fall.’
As the pointy fingers of a shadowed Goliath calls for ‘Peace,
peace and unity from the beaten tears of their prey wailing,
‘Can’t we all get along?’
Into the woody hood of the Fishy-king’s domain, Mork laid to
rest a teary eyed clown as a movie cinder-wife pontificated
to Red, ‘you are not alone’. Really? And Job’s nemesis tells
him to ‘curse God and die!’
Wealthy predators of Afghanistan leer at the fiery dancing
boys, the Bacha Bazi and the Scottish cannabis growing
slaves masturbate on West African temple slaves who offer
their being to a vengeful demi-deity while the cocoa and
camel boys jockey for Islam while paying for the organs
harvested in Somalia and Haitian scapegoats terrorize
themselves into hysteria through that voodoo that you do,
so well, enforced by their paler Dominican canker twin.
By the way, some like to ride hot and dirty, becoming a
little richer for tutti, frutti, Oh, Rutti’s ass while
thirteen year old cousins experience great balls of fire
calling for restraint and a cessation of protests down the
madding, meanest, unnecessary harden streets while pretend
patriots reprimand their brethren for shooting savages and
wilding N….s behind generations of pinched, Botox burning
cross dressing sheets.
Like Josephs’ brothers sold him into slavery so the warring
Africans did, the North American Indians, the English, the
Spanish, the Portuguese, the Japanese, and all the
Ahab-Jezebel others, in cycles of evil within Babel- Aztec
ziggurats of Viking Gulags, pawns never escaping the
falsifier’s spotlighted in tyranny.
Photograph by Christopher Skor
