heading west a procession of hearses snaking like ants,

  then quicker than quick or the blink of an eye—

  a swirling, black dervish resembling an elephant trunk

  drops down, howling out of the sky in front of you,

  is a surprise, much louder than the last scream you feared

  you heard before it quickly thrashed around you,

  like what you thought death might be in the center of truth,

  like life you no longer recognized, coming straight at you,

  bleeding, pleading once again to your maker

  to please let you survive this moment of peril, this madness,

  this roll of seven, this middle finger, in the dice game of life

  spared you once again, dealt you a winning hand, so

  you thank God—the Creator—for the umpteenth time

  in your, up & down stock market roller coaster life,

  just as sin creeps back into your brain once again

  BLOOD

  there is blood shed through voices

  blood inking red finger maps

  snaking across concrete gaps, blood

  blooming petals of bright red roses

  blood seducing madness in brains

  HURRICANE MARIA, 2017

  watching hurricane maria hit guadeloupe

  a category five wind & rain monster

  in september 2017, an evil, violet eye

  in the calm center of this massive storm

  churning up, frothing sea waves,

  prowling like a black panther

  we noticed the cold-blooded clouds

  staring down—margaret & me—

  our lovely, small house

  filled with sweet memories creativity

  dreams, love, & we wondered if

  it would still be there the morning after

  THREE WASPS IN JUAN DOLIO, SANTO DOMINGO

  for José Bedia and Margaret Porter Troupe

  four wasps flew into José’s condo

  in Juan Dolio, Santo Domingo,

  flew in through the open sliding doors

  looking for whatever it was only they knew,

  but they didn’t seem to find whatever it was,

  so they started terrorizing me, buzzing

  all around, dive-bombing over my head

  like hornets, while eye was eating breakfast,

  swooping down, making me flail my arms

  like wind-mills, Margaret just sat there, still

  as silence, ignoring those wasps, hailing

  from backwoods Gloster, Mississippi, she

  was raised with them, but being from asphalt

  streets of St. Louis, Missouri, eye kept on

  swatting at those buzzing little bugaboos,

  trying to kill them, but failing at that

  eye got me a broom to smash the tiresome

  little annoyances, when one got stuck up

  in the sticky glue of a spider’s web

  up on the ceiling, hanging upside down

  from a light bulb fixture, it started wiggling,

  spinning wildly around, but couldn’t get loose,

  so it hung up there like a lynched black man,

  or a woman, buffeted by winds blowing

  through open doors like a probing tongue, it—

  the breeze—kept the thing spinning around

  until it just died, before the other

  three wasps came back to rescue their friend—

  lover? who knows—it was too late anyway,

  so they just kept buzzing around, up close,

  sniffing at the dangling dead one—for what?

  though careful not to get too close themselves,

  to stick onto the deadly spider’s gossamer

  glue—which meant certain death for them too—so

  then the three seemed to go into deep mourning

  while flying around, they reminded me

  of stumbling drunk people, thumping hard

  against the ceiling, then they flew back down,

  looked again at their fallen comrade

  up there just spinning, no movement, except

  the fluttering, from time to time, of its

  frail, transparent wings, and Margaret said,

  “wasps must have emotions too,” made me feel

  sorry for the dead wasp, for its three friends,

  seemingly so inconsolable now

  in their mourning, bumping like crazy up

  on the ceiling, that’s when eye put down my broom,

  vowed never to kill another wasp again

  unless they were trying to sting me,

  then all bets will be off, eye told myself,

  because in a blink eye would go back to

  killing all them buzzing little bugaboos,

  in droves, just like the deranged, wild swinging

  American fool eye truly am at my core

  SONIC FIREFLIES

  the beauty of voices of jazz & blues,

  syncopation of syllables flowing

  free form through improvising sentences

  sluicing, embracing, metaphors glowing

  eyes in the dark like words imitating

  fireflies pulsating bright in a black sky

  when gleaming eyes of a prowling black panther

  suddenly clicks on bright as flashlight beams

  under moon rays probing into hidden

  isolated mysterious places

  somewhere deep in the buzzing countryside

  WATCHING SEAGULLS HUNT FOR FISH IN SINES, PORTUGAL

  for David Murray

  seagulls perched high on gabled rooftops

  in Sines, Portugal, search the sparkling

  sea waves below brimming with fish, then

  they squak, extend their wide, razor blade wings,

  before diving, like released Peregrine Falcons

  slicing down through a clear blue sky

  stretching due west from my view—then

  they become silhouettes, screaming,

  searching for food, their tiny heads

  revolving on necks—perusing devices—

  scan foaming waves with laser beam eyes,

  zeroing in on delectable fish before

  transforming themselves into assassins,

  avenging angels when their radar gaze

  spots supper in the frothing salt water

  churning with schools of all kinds of fish, then

  they dive straight down, snatch a few

  from waves boiling with plenty for these

  avenging angels with hooked, geiger counter beaks

  cutting through wind currents,

  slicing through shimmering scales of fish

  like killers do every night anywhere in America

  on Saturday nights during killing frenzies

  then eye watch the seagulls shoot straight up

  like missiles shot from canons through clouds

  the fish wiggling desperately in their hooked mouths

  look like worms on fishing hooks all over the world

  then the gulls become silhouettes again

  shot look like black arrows shot towards the sun

  SPRING TIME MOVING TOWARD SUMMER: A CRAP SHOOT

  at the edge of green springtime

  voices sprout wings, pursed lips explode ruby red,

  pucker up kisses blooming

  open wet petals plump as rain drops jelly

  bean size splashes down from clouds, then

  eye hear choirs of birds singing sweetly now, feel

  a deep peacefulness soothing

  cruising beneath blue(s) swelling up—a solo

  blown here by marauding winds—

  changes faster than humans see, deeper still

  than all religious fervor

  probes carrying words light as feathers floating

  beneath zigzagging lightning

  strikes, rambunctious spring’s blustering wind tongues

  lift saxophone licks moaning slick

  as “who do you love” bop solos rapping hip,

  sliding off chord changes, beats

  flicking behind time, cuts through clutter like sharp

  knives slice through butter—“brother

  can you spare a dime”—because it’s a crap shoot

  when you roll them bones across

  light green cloths spread out across tables real quick,

  or throw them up against walls,

  out in the public, watch them hucka-buckin’

  when kites shimmy, flip through spring’s

  warm air, summers just around crowded corners,

  people dressed to the nines bet

  those black dots looking up from them small white squares

  like cold snake eyes of gangsters

  when they throw them bones real hard, they will roll true

  herky-jerky ’cross bad luck,

  leap to paradise when those dice stop prancing,

  and money drops down, then luck

  definitely matters who wins or loses

  because the game changes now

  is all about whatever language is used

  to tap down pain, hurt feelings

  after green backs money meant for roofs over

  losers’ heads flew, plunged like rocks

  through wind swept skies—many became suicides—

  paid for winners’ heartfelt joy

  when they shot themselves as arrows from bent back

  bows—sheets of words built bridges

  into metaphors there—converted deep poems

  to drum sounds, constructed songs,

  sluiced images zinging through spoken rhythms

  flung into space, threw up smack

  as language mirroring place, echoing roots

  geography remembers

  race mirroring faces, memory, music,

  speech rooted, gestures—ham bone

  slaps thighs—clucking tongues, bass grooving love,

  deep beats in this moment, poetry

  deep in word plays original bag, sings verbs

  sweeter than chocolate cake

  eye remember melting in mother’s red mouth

  when she clamped down, smacked her lips

  on all those saccharine portions piled high there,

  dripping bonbon brown icing,

  then she would look at me with authority,

  as she ate every slice

  with greedy satisfaction she winked at me,

  coolly, like the queen she was,

  dabbed a napkin to touch up corners of her

  full mouth smeared with bonbon brown

  icing smeared, looking like a striking painting

  echoing one of Romare

  Bearden’s majestic ladies of Harlem nights,

  decked out in beautiful silk,

  eye remembered this memory at her wake

  when eye saw her nestled there

  in her coffin at rest in all that white silk

  smiling as if she had eaten

  plenty of those sweet brown chocolate bonbons

  WATTS 1965

  eye came in the dead of night broke to watts

  looking for whatever was there to pick up,

  since my pockets were empty, had holes in my shoes,

  nothing in the refrigerator to eat or drink, though

  eye had poems in my imagination, though

  eye couldn’t make a meal out of those words

  FLOWERS BLOOMING IN CENTRAL PARK

  for Margaret

  the sun god climbs the sky between her ripe plump breasts—

  a promise? they remind me of two melons, new sunrises

  would bring into our lives—a mirage of the past? swollen, erect

  nipples! but then again this could be a dream teasing my aging

  longing, when grey clouds bloom, drop rain, it’s April, spring

  time, and the sun washes over, cleans again my cobwebbed desire

  and eye find myself thinking of flowers beginning to flourish

  in Central Park, their multicolored buds like heads swaying

  atop slender stems when a gentle breeze sashays through—

  like a tongue—in the park, alluring me, like a female dancer

  blowing caressing kisses in my fevered imagination

  in the first place, we all live alone—like these flowers—yearning

  throughout our own lives to grow—inside our own bodies—flesh,

  death lives there too, so does life—no matter what, people,

  dogs, cats, rats, insects, fools, all kinds of creepy things, vibrant things

   also—live here too, everywhere, carrying whatever, voices, poetry

  hanging in the breeze, breathing—cold, warm in the air,

  to speak truth, if at all possible, is the way to go, now in this weird,

  destructive period—time frame—we walk through now—crawl,

  perhaps stand up straight if our backbones permit

  laddering up our spines—but we know time is always

  moving like weather—a tornado there, a day of sun

  here, today is what it is, with or without our approval—

  then, sometimes we run across an old feeble dog, alone,

  dragging its ass through a park, living fire gone from its eyes

  tired now—which reminded me suddenly of the sweet

  heat of a beautiful love affair eye had once and my memory

  plunged deep into an equally passionate woman, whose tongue,

  a lance of fire, lit my fuse, as did her burning cinder eyes,

  sucked me down into her sweet-honey passion and we rode,

  the volcanic crater of her vice-like, welcoming vagina grip

  was bucking heat, flesh to flesh, until collapsing, trembling,

  wet with sweat as daybreak broke outside our window

  that was then, this is now, eye have spent 80 years roaming,

  different streets of cities around this spinning globe

  revolving around the sun & moon, bright eyes of stars watching

  people down here doing terrible things, with no place to go

  to escape what we have done, surrounded by all this damage

  people have inflicted on each other, on this planet

  when there is no place to run, hide from all this avarice

  we have indulged in, all this ugliness full of evil contempt

  and now the bill is coming due with the deadly arrival

  of a novel coronavirus, the white nationalism of Trumpism,

  which has erased the concept of “United” in the states of America

  A HAIKU AND A TANKA

  A QUICK SNACK HAIKU

  yellow banana

  rests like a dream on my plate

  for a brief moment

  SOME COLORS IN FRUIT

  my watermelon

  is green on the outside, red,

  sweet on the inside,

  juicy as ripe tomatoes,

  plums & cherries in my mouth

  GLOSTER, MISSISSIPPI: TANKAS & HAIKUS SUITE

  kids rapping bebop

  out on the block in gloster,

  mississippi, hot

  as a skillet full of grease

  cookin pork bacon

  kids creating words

  here like razzamatazz, zeebop,

  then a bossman come,

  his nickname smelly fool, dude

  had a cool sidekick,

  diddy-wah-diddy

  was his name, tall & skinny

  as a lean lamp-post

  or an exclamation mark,

  mouth shaped like a fish

  when he opened it

  words flew out like silver fish

  flashing in the sun,

  he rapped like jay-z,

  faster than 2 chainz poems,

  slick as rihanna,

  quicker than a ferrari

  race car, faster than rap-poems

  sweet as mother’s love

  these words silver moon faces

  up in a dark sky

  a cold drink at noon

  in the mississippi sun,

  the love of gloster

  in beautiful young

  faces beaming from children

  here, deep as pure song,

  music in heart beats

  sweet in blues rhythms, gospel,

  voices in the air,

  blooming like flowers

  bright as children’s deep set eyes

  shining rare diamonds

  THE HAITIAN DRUM HAMMERERS OF JUAN DOLIO, SANTA DOMINGO

  for José Bedia

  they start early in the morning, rain or shine

  hitting with their tiny pointy hammers,

  they create a sound-rhythm these drummers do

  sometimes four-four, six-eight rhythms, but then

  they go off these sound-tracks, create voodoo,

  ra ra rhythms of their own, accented

  drumming voices shouting, yemaya, damballah,

  come here, sing with me, help me set a rhythm

  to complete my healing work, it’s kongo time

  in the spiritual world of juan dolio, santa domingo,

  listen to the haitian drum workers speak through

  musical cadences of their pick a pick,

  knock knock drumming chorus hammers, up under

  their chanting work songs, led by their leader,

  listen to their consonants, vowels clashing off key,

  picking moments to come together in one voice,

  then slide off separately—slippery as eels

  wiggling in different voices—African,

  Haitian, Dominican, Puerto Rican, Cuban

  pitched through tight, hip group improvisations

  changing course in a moment of pure genius,

  evoked by love of simply playing music together

  TRYING TO FIND MY WAY INTO A POEM IN 14 LINES

  eye was looking for a way into some poems

  forming in the kettle drum of my brain when

  eye thought of kernels of popcorn simmering—

  one of my very favorite snacks eye pop myself—

  deep in oil, just about to flash boil in a steel pot

  over blue flames on a stove, reminding me of lovers

  licking heat between each other, or hungry demons

  watching this spectacle, and it reminded me then

  of water boiling in huge cauldrons slave masters

  used to throw unruly slaves into, then high five

  themselves when flesh of slaves burned off,