In Order of Appearance

   A dollar bill, three quarters from thin fingers.
   "One more quarter, honey."
   "He's nine."
   "It's still a dollar."
   Concession. It's just a quarter.
   The two brothers walk to the back of the bus, the older boy thinking about bus drivers and the younger about his sticky apple fingers. Two seats are open on either side of the aisle, the boys sit. The older boy notices the kid sitting beside him -- guitar case between his legs, notebook on his lap, he writes. On his writing wrist he wears a silver bangle, bent a little oval, and a thin crimson string. The older brother looks hard at his neighbor's face. Together, those wristlets belong to a Hindu in worship, but the guitar kid doesn't look Indian. The older brother knows his father would have something to say about Westerners stealing his culture, about "Shankar being too damn generous with those ridiculous Brits." The guitar kid probably loves them.
   All the while, little brother's been nudging a dead moth with the toe of his sandal, and wishing he had some water to wash his hands with. He's thirsty too.
   "Kid."
   Little brother turns his head toward the aisle and is face-to-crotch with a pair of faded red swimming trunks. He looks up, way up. In approximately the troposphere, an old Native American man looks down, way down, from behind some black Wayfarers. His thick braids reach his belly.
   "You're in my seat."
   Little brother glances at the fat lady beside him for help -- she's asleep.
   "I was here first," the tall stoic voice.
   The guitar kid exhales laughter, the older boy stares at him. He turns toward his brother, reaches past the big Native for a sticky hand, and leads the little one to the back of the bus, smiling one of those secret big brother smiles.
   "When we get home, can you make me some fruit salad?"
   "You just had an apple," the older boy answers.
   "Yeah, but...I think we have mangoes at home. I want mangoes."
   The older boy nods.

"waitin to bop"

waitin to bop!   i got it,  i got it

fingers little clumsy

but the heart bops strong --

home tonight,

i'll read Brother Baraka

    an throw up my hands!

    pull down the ceilin!

on my eyelids,
bodies smelling sweet real human

     mooovin osmosis union!

on my eyelids,

     smokey dark, bubblin bop

     and that darrrk sannngre!

on my fingers,

     your sweet dreams honey drip

     livin songs beneath my nails --

 hooold that thought

 an let it go,

 juss listen to the whisper

 and hum, hon

 hmmmm?

"this city I have fashioned"

this city I have fashioned

of clay as I discovered it --

its voice I shaped as I listened

to the sweet angel aria,

broken mirror and honest.

it is mine, this place...

a promise I whispered at conception --

and here we are,

standing like children on those same syllables.

listen,

the sound of creation.

wonder, hm?

that it is not your song,

that this place is not also your own?

--

all of us train angels

transfixed in communion by the holy Real outside our window:

like india ink the city spills

into God's exhaled sky and reaches for the half-moon

like a newborn for anything.

Color vs. Colour

(blue)

(fly)

(blood)

(railroad)

(swamps)

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Re: Meteor Showers

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Ripped + Glued + Painted

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Automoton : Organism :: Automoton : Organism

(roots)

(above us)

(prophet see)

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