Life should be so easy as a boy

on swing set, thrusting both feetforward,

pulling his facethrough a breeze, or

to be curled in a lover’s arm in the park,

river swirls as meditation. Warrages

inside this leansilk in the limelight,

oh how to articulate the madness except

through a drum machine, distantfamily member

to thedjembe—

an electronic beat is what you hear.

Now layer that with a voice smooth

as hot silverflowing into half-dollars,

brighter than a thousand camera flashes,

and the mirrored shades gleaming

is for others toreflect themselves.

Oh the fork tongue whispering

knows the five-spots in SoutheastDC,

has seen hollowedbuildings on 14^th Street

in a state of rigor-mortis from the 60s:

a construct of crumbling brickstructures

held by agingplyboard.

A moon of narcotic drains from the nostrils,

everything bone bright—numb

as if this may bethe apocalypse.

Oh they have chosen a troubled man

to signify Old Glory, which unfurls

if nothing butfaithfully in the background.

In theyard with my faded prison jacket

shielding wind-needles of winter, the guards

rifles are merely desireextended,

desire fueled byeager index fingers

waiting for me to believe I ambulletproof

and scale thecircular fence. I want to live.

I take a breath of sour airdrifting downwind

from farmlandsin Maryland’s green hills,

grab a pinch full of Kite andtwist a rollup.

Inmates run fiveon five, trying to remember

youthful years when they soaredhigh

as sneakerscould elevate off the blacktop.

But I know a hard foul can drawclenched fists,

—thensolitary. I light the cigarette,

walk the graveled track and watcha sparrow

pull its speckled body over thehillside.

(for Kelly Norman Ellis)

I come from the slow roll of top papers,

from the fifteen-joint nickel bag.

I come from moon lit street corners

that worshipped dead eagles morethan God.

I come from gangster idiom,

the soft bank of dice against thecurb

from dudes named Pocketknife,

Blade, Pappy, Graveyard Pimp andWolf.

I come from inside a blue trumpet melody,

from the tornado swirl of a crackpipe.

I come from Magic City’s rusted sky,

from the whiskey still of myfather’s father,

the bootleg house of my mother’s mother

where I poured liquid healing intoa shot glass.

I come from fertile down south soil,

from the wood, solid oaktrees—

pines and mimosas that form an umbrella

over palisades of red mountainclay.

I come from possibility and neversay die

instilled by everything southern.

Crosses threshold    pushing  

not heroin   but herself   one foot

push  pull theother one    two

a.m.   deserted   street-  

noise  stars drown   blocked

by trees     leaves in gutter

she climbed out of it    high

red boot walker  denomination

baptist  religion   ran-ran

face first  her   to the other side

of cool     if an artist could

please do     capture ash bone

the night dog barking at the rat-

a-tat-tat goes the uzi    still

a lady she was    in her   day

these are     all the same

daddy wasn’t no     glass maker

would be hard to tell   somebody

gotta be  witness the aesthetic

stay rooted  inthe   cannot be

eyed  never complete  the human

a rough draft    in nameless rift.