no matter your genius worldwide celebrity your hope to love everyone—

  for you what the world always needed was “love sweet love”

  but few knew how to get there then or now or whenever

  because love is a deep life-changing thing hard anytime maybe

  impossible for many though it still is the answer if truth be told

  all this malice caught you by surprise since you were an innocent—

  though sharp as a razor when it came to business—who only wanted love

  to please everyone with your art for everyone to love you too

  the heart of your music taking wings in rhythm striking love

  like lightning zigzagging your iconic beats across a menacing black sky

  2.

  suddenly you became a piñata in the 24/7 corporate media world

  for anyone to swing at in public because of problems they thought

  you had—sleepovers with macauley culkin emmanuel lewis at neverland—then

  tom sneddon the santa barbara sheriff wanted to look for vitiligo on your penis

  drove the bogus 1993 child molestation charges

  though many knew the charges were made up by greedy parents—

  then you married lisa marie presley divorced her married weird debbie rowe

  had two children by her before you divorced odd debbie too spoke on that strange

  martin bashir—now an msnbc anchor—documentary showing you buying that gaudy

  expensive junk then you dangled your son prince from a berlin balcony

  went through that bogus 2005 trial before being exonerated though

  your spiritual image in the media was in total tatters after that

  dealing with you became a bolus stuck in many people’s throats—

  it wasn’t about the music we all loved but about you michael—

  your strangeness dominated was fed intravenously to your critics

  like the prescription drugs you were taking now as lupus came down on you

  vitiligo changed the way you looked as white spots spread like a plague

  over your brown body forced you to bleach yourself all white if you still wanted

  to entertain in public & you did because entertaining was in your blood

  was what you always needed to do to be whole—but few wanted to see

  your spots on stage the cartography of your skin—when you let us view it

  not covered with clothing—hands face neck slivers of arms wrists

  fingers/tips palms your lips turned all red now with fresh lipstick though

  the most bizarre change in your face was your newly reconstructed nose

  looking as though it had been assaulted in war showing all those battle scars

  no plastic surgeon could conceal—the grotesque changes—

  when scrutinizing cameras zoomed in you couldn’t hide the damage

  no matter how much money you spent it couldn’t hide the bizarre transformation

  of your face with any kind of makeup—for this there was no grace,

  all this bizarre renovation took a toll on you—& us—dominated the media

  instead of your music your deep abiding seductive spiritual love—

  this was the tragedy of your long fall from grace michael this new definition

  fixed you in the media—racist as it always is for black people—

  with snippets of facts false truths innuendo—though in the end your love

  & your music will be your timeless gift to us all not some prying camera news-

  reader/voiceover who never wanted to know the real you

  but at the end you were a little boy isolated in a fifty-year-old body

  deep sadness in your once beautiful round light bulb eyes

  though you were ready to bask in the spotlight onstage once again

  with your “this is it” london concerts to show everyone you still had it

  the incredible seductive magic to amaze but death—a kind of weird suicide

  when you rolled the dice for seven it came up snake-eyes—ending it all

  pulled us into profound grief mourning left us pondering the question—

  what would have happened had you not left way too soon

  3.

  death found you after midnight when you finished rehearsing your new show

  from the staples center you went home happy that last night

  because you had once again entered the wondrous zone of your artistic genius

  you were trying to sleep when you checked yourself out with an i.v.

  drip dripping the deadly anesthetic propofol—you called it your “milk”—

  drip dripping death into your collapsed starving veins needle marks tracking up

  & down your paper-thin white arms your skin almost translucent

  when you entered “the valley of death” you had long spoken of—

  you went there skin & bones bald as a bowling ball save a little peach fuzz

  on top of your head under the long witch’s wig (did you wear it to bed at night

  michael trying to fall asleep through terrible insomnia) drugs running

  like polluted rivers through your ghostly anorexic body

  swallowed by tents of your clothing—in the end you were still

  responsible for your own life michael the way you lived it with yes-people

  surrounding around you giving you everything you wanted—not needed—

  responsible for your own death if you killed yourself as eye think you did—

  depressed as you were at the end though happy too with great joy

  for your comeback tour surrounded by your children & music

  when you took your spirit to the other side of the veil you went

  free of the pain around you since childhood the savage scrutiny relentless

  prying eyes of media cameras searching for anything they could find—

  still you were responsible for yourself michael for your children

  all those who loved you but you wanted all of it—the fame you craved

  the spotlight shining on you with vengeance—did you forget the baggage

  that comes with being a nova/star—& it finally trapped you

  your beautiful spirit inside a spider web of your own making—

  didn’t you see the poisonous media spider of death coming for you—

  in the end you didn’t deserve the terrible hatred & envy that came your way

  but you surrounded yourself with all those vampire vultures & that deadly

  spider fed off you greedily until you were a shell of skin & bones

  some say you had duffel bags packed with cash hidden in the mansion

  when you died—there was news someone in your family bum-rushed your death

  scene trying to take that money—perhaps it was only rumor like so much else

  swirling around your life until it became a kind of truth—whatever it was

  the spectacle surrounding your death was heartbreakingly sad

  revealed just how important you were to making money for others—no matter

  death—like elvis—your porcelain-white flesh soon will become memory

  but your music & artistic élan will live pulsating magic & love

  transformative as anything eye have ever heard or seen in my life

  the announcement of your death was like a gigantic broom

  sweeping everything off front pages of newspapers—

  across the globe your death totally dominated airwaves

  people wept danced celebrated your life played your songs once again—

  your funeral was something to behold you laying there unseen

  inside your flower-draped golden coffin as friends & family testified

  honored your name your music your arc of human love

  up over staples center—kobe bryant’s mecca—the shape of a heart appeared

  above in the blue sky—inside berry gordy spoke sage words about you

  al sharpton gave a powerful speech a gospel choir sang poignantly

  so did usher & stevie wonder pulsating images of you dancing singing electric

  graced a screen in all your glory brooke shields spoke incisive words

  evoked humor a deep personal friendship then your daughter paris

  broke down weeping at the end of the ceremony

  told everyone how much she loved you would miss you greatly

  this brought everyone to tears in this moment of mourning you michael—though

  we also wept for paris her loss—when the ceremony was over the final image

  a single spotlight shining on a lone microphone standing center stage

  was an homage to you as your poignant voice sang for us

  to look at ourselves finally “& make a change”

  CODA

  jagged lightning rips open a black stormy sky over new york city

  on a day late in july over a month since you went to “the valley of death”

  the lightning tearing the mood asunder reminds me of you hip-jabbing

  your signature fractured cutout silhouette dance jagged

  white against black evoking whatever beauty comes to mind during an act

  of creative power as lightning strikes bring with it a bold sense of fiery

  resurrection of savage beauty the unbridled creative power of music

  perhaps sudden lightning & thunder is a reminder of demons possessing us all—

  especially you michael despite your gentle spirit—perhaps the sudden fierce

  lightning eye saw today is like you—no iambic hexameter line could contain

  your combustible zapping spirit no broken-up space-filled stanzas

  all over the page could reflect the arc of your haunting voice aching with longing

  though sometimes bright with hard steel glittering off the arch rising above

  the mississippi fronting downtown st. louis during clear nights or days

  when the moon or sunrays dance across the glittering surface curved

  like a bow in the hands of one of our native american indian ancestors

  your compact diamond-hard lightning-quick energy zeroing in during a moment

  focused in rhythm inside the music dance your imaginative quicksilver grooves

  within your electric spirit hovering in the sky lancing lightning music

  with thunder thrilling with fierce beauty keening through

  the firmament of our memory with a discharge of incredible energy

  your iconic image there in skies around the globe reminds us

  of your glory your creativity magic imagined with love teaching us

  honing in on mystery & beauty—you will always be there Michael

  as spirit a sudden bolt of lightning ripping open the sky like today

  your arc of music beckoning us to always “make a change”

  V.

  THOUGHTS ON A SUNDAY MORNING IN GOYAVE

  for my son, Porter, on his 24th birthday

  it is sunday morning, 5:30 a.m. when the roosters began crowing

  throughout my goyave neighborhood, their cockadoodledoos

  reverberate up & down hills of this valley

  in their age-old struggle to be the first to announce the rising of the sun

  from its grave in the night sky—somewhere in the east, the morning breaks through

  cotton-candy gray clouds cruising over a tranquil caribbean sea, mirrors

  the sadness of the earth below, where strutting, preening roosters

  remind me of puffed-up politicians crowing their bogus pretense at sagacity,

  peddling machiavellian snake-oil schemes of compassionate hope

  to neutered flocks of sheep making beelines for edges of cliffs—

  it’s an age-old maneuver/scheme to sacrifice the poor

  in overcrowded populations—

  now my thoughts spin north

  to the american capital, bumbling dupes of the bush administration—

  the gang who can’t shoot straight, or keep their ducks in a row—who every day

  come spinning complete falsehoods with straight faces in place

  today, throughout this dark, desolate period of our lives

  there are so many political hatchet men all over the globe—

  the hypocritical lapdogs of england, avaricious hyenas all over africa,

  oil-drunk royal pigs of saudi arabia, the slimy, fez-wearing fools

  posing in kabul, afghanistan,

  the bumbling idiots leading israel & palestine, lizard-eyed weasels

  all over the caribbean, mexico, central & south america, paralysis all over

  europe, canada, australia, the far east, russia, everywhere, these men—

  women too—imitating fat croaking frogs wallowing in cesspools,

  surrounded by phantasmagorias of poisonous reptiles

  flicking out tongues, eyeing their next prey

  what are the root causes of all these age-old disagreements,

  these fruitless wars without end, this poverty of spirit, imagination

  sacrificed on the bonfires of vanity, greed, power, racism, xenophobia,

  these dangerous, self-righteous religious creeds, this exhausting

  mindset of white-skinned privilege

  as an unconditional birthright to do what they want,

  when they want, to anything & everyone on earth

  where has the love gone on this grieving, polluted planet

  now my thoughts turn back to these roosters crowing

  throughout this beautiful valley,

  eye see their need to outdo each other when thrown together

  in the same backyard—they argue, fight, but do not kill each other

  unless trained by men—as we humans have since time immemorial

  all eye know for certain is that it’s sunday, march 25th,

  it is beautiful here in goyave, today is the birthday

  of my youngest son, porter, twenty-four years old, living out his dream

  of becoming a professional basketball player, in romania,

  we can only hope he succeeds, that he’s well, happy,

  hope we’ve taught him to love, live peacefully with others,

  to do the best he can with what he’s given, to be thankful

  the sun rises each morning, thankful

  for the sweet love & good cheer

  he brings into our lives every day

  & into the sacred lives of so many others

  GOYAVE NIGHT SCENE

  roll-up door lifts next to a yellow light bathing

  the black & white photo of miles dewey davis

  resting on the white wall of our house in goyave

  as a cool sea breeze tongues in, massages my face & toes

  where eye am stretched out on a black & white couch,

  looking at the leonine “prince of darkness” dressed in black

  lizard pants, open white shirt, a slender black scarf hangs

  from his neck, he is young, handsome, beautiful even,

  looks taut as a black panther slouched in repose,

  his face looks pensive, lost in thought, he holds his golden

  trumpet cocked in the air, as if about to play with the night

  sounds of frogs, birds, & crickets syncopating into my house

  as they serenade us with their pulsating musical grooves,

  outside, imagined ghost-voices emanate from shadows,

  tremble through bushes clinging to fences,

  eye hear a bat’s sharp cry cleave the night like a razor

  slicing through flesh, bone, gristle, as a bloodcurdling

  scream of a dog hit during rush-hour traffic reminds us

  death is always near, right around the corner

  & all is not paradise here, though close as anything

  eye have ever imagined, close as anything beautiful

  can be to the paradox of mystery, surprise, wonder

  SITTING ON MY VERANDA, FACING THE CARIBBEAN SEA

  for Derek

  eye sit on my veranda in goyave, listen to voices serenading,

  climbing out of foaming waves of the caribbean sea,

  hear them suds on shore murmuring of past apocalyptic histories

  clashing with truth,

  small rocks & sand tickling bare toes of swimmers

  lying on beaches here, perhaps provoke in them dreams of strolling

  electric streets hip in amber, of lovers holding hands in paris,

  new york city—wherever dreams carry them to magic

  it is november here, right before transforming darkness falls

  with its bejeweled black cape sweeping over the entire sky with flair,

  then a flourish of cicadas & crickets come out raising sound from their legs

  rubbing up against each other with passion, they join choirs of frogs

  in a symphony swelling the night with orchestral compositions of wonder—

  like lyrical casuarinas they fuse with voices of birds whispering

  from leaves of trees bowed by wind-tongues until they sing beautifully

  with melodies, as traffic music of passing cars climb into my ears

  drummed from highway one, mix with spinning rubber tires, wash them

  into a whooshing sound of charging engines trailing off into the distance,

  where they disappear down the plunging road into the night—

  are they going into a quick death of wreckage or a slow aging one?—

  a certainty we all have to rendezvous with sooner or later—

  eye turn from the echo chamber of my ears & look south

  toward st. lucia, where my old friend derek walcott lives in a lovely house,

  also facing the caribbean sea & eye hope he is still writing wondrous poems

  as he approaches his eightieth birthday in january 2010—

  we have known each other almost half our lives now,

  since 1968 when eye met him in los angeles—eye first read of trees

  called casuarinas in one of his poems & loved the beauty of the word,

  the sound lilting with syllables evoking a dance

  of the sea washing in

  as now, when it is 3:00 a.m. here & the new rooster next door begins

  his ritualistic crowing a little early—it is misty now,

  whispers of rain are falling, though frogs & crickets are still making music—