Catherine the Great

a rumble of Cossacks rising,

sweeping the ancient prison floor

with howls of laughter,

could be heard by

Catherine the Great,

who didn't smile at their joke.

she knew death

and what it was,

and hoped to teach them a lesson.

her ambition was to be a highway woman,

paving a cruel road for these travelers.

smashing illusions with glee,

she knew perfectly well there was nothing

to hope for outside of the party,

or inside the party,

when she set the rules.

on the Black Sea beaches there were no tennis players

lobbing wishes into the air,

and no leather-goods factories spinning yarns

for the proletarian to wear.

and on an island in the White Sea,

there was no one else alive.

listening to Diana Ross

Brazilian fish stew

so who knew

crossing the bridge could be so hard

a glass shard

cutting the grass

and shooting stars

dodging speeding taxis and unlicensed cars

up town 

blinding white

white walls

making all the important calls

arranging an interview

so who knew

pop art

pop tart

straight or narrow

hiding in the attic after 5 o'clock

walking the neon block

swimming in Central Park 

only when it's completely dark

wearing designer glasses

attending high society classes

sipping tea

with the ladies in their finest finery

playing the fool

in a massive public pool

black as more than simply a color

more than any other

a tough go

head to toe

so who knew

standing solo,

dressing in perfect Polo

wearing a white wig

eating a Spanish olive and a tasty fig

listening to Diana Ross

in a rain-lashed lightening storm

feeling wet and wild

elevated like a giddy God-child

on the easy side of the bridge.

waiting in line

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

and when the sun starts to fade

there's nothing good that i made

but you're telling me to try my hand

at something that i don't understand?

how can anyone run on the track

when they have marks on their back?

how can she touch me?

she knows that i'm not free

dreaming on a passing cloud

but i'm talking much too loud

the words aren't making sense

i'm striking out in self-defense

no open arms or fancy charms

i'm selling you the farm

as i pass this way and that

not a bum and not an aristocrat

so i'll see all the stuff you advertise

wondering how to win the first prize

stooping low and reaching for new highs

and it has to have an end

but maybe only when i overspend

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

what the Indian said

the American Indian stole my heart

she carried it to her sacred land

buried it deeply at wounded knee

she never asked me what i wanted to be

if i were to grow in size

foolishly fooling around while acting wise

crying on the open prairie 

over top of all the unmarked graves

the noise of galloping wild horses

war cries of the charging braves

smoke curling low on the land

drumming up the mountain top

amplified music piercing my soul

but there's not enough money to pay my toll

tribal lands with ghost riders of the lost

carrying their burden whatever the cost

laments wailing at the dying of a rose

in whatever direction the heated air blows,

i simply sit reading by candlelight

looking out my western-facing window;

and when it was finally time for bed

I still hadn't learned the lesson of what the Indian said.

cracked glass on the kitchen table

naked children crying on the dirt road

smoke curling around their falling tears

no joke

to make them laugh

the barbed wire strung like nervous energy

Martin Luther dead on the cement landing at the Lorraine Motel

blood stains

candy canes

armored tank tracks plowing a farmer's field,

looking for a target

looking for you

holding a white bag staring at the driver

drum beats like leather batons smacking a palm

war slogans repeating like staccato bolts of madness

Putin wearing his war criminal mask,

dancing on the graves of elderly people,

following the footprints of bastardly old Joe.

a friend said he was from Bedford-Stuyvesant,

New York City,

holding an automatic rifle at birth.

full metal jacket

wrapped against the cold steel

without gloves

black wrist bands screaming revolution

lovers looking up at the night sky

Orion

James Webb space telescope designed to make sense

of the mysterious

Age of Aquarius

the stage in the summer of '69

in Harlem's Mount Morris Park

and all for black not negro

proudly raised fists!    

a Javelin launched and a dead helicopter with crew members

dismembered

cell phone calls to mom answered

she is heard to say "Dear son!"

skin peeling from the heat

refugees listening to Led Zeppelin,

singing their immigrant songs,

waiting for decent food and a safer place to sleep

underground

bunkers and sandbags

Vietnam

Ukraine

how many more?

a police radio

confusing static

Mussolini

Nicolae Ceausescu

cracked glass on the kitchen table

bomb debris

the Pope, apologizing frequently

without wearing handcuffs

on the Vatican square,

knows there's not enough stones

to cast out the devil.

the ruins of Mariupol

from the mountains near Hiroshima

where gentle faces now bloom,

memories of a silent night

slip from a silent room

on the softest of slippers, 

as innocent as snow,

into purified air 

while the Japanese winds blow

to the far ruins of Mariupol

where innocent citizens died!

when a tyrant said he was peaceful

but mothers knew that he lied;

the children are hungry;

the old folks cried:

their shadows have fallen

and remain by their side.