Jack Micheline
from 67 poems for downtrodden saints
It is Dusk It is dusk and the wind is flowing through the trees one black bird flies in the sky blue clouds over San Francisco a freight train is heading north towards the Oregon mountains a bird is singing on Telephone wires purple flower of hope I am hope I am the cloud and the pair of trousers I am on the mountain above the bridges I am the lone flag flying that is the heart of America forgotten I am Walt Whitman now hiring a photographer I sharpen my pencil with my teeth O red flower of the universe O magic flower get me high
Poem to Bob Kaufman Born in Louisiana The wail of saxophones paraded in the sky Black son of rain Marched down Bourbon Street You walked the streets of North beach out of your mind A golden sardine Out of the desert concrete Of American mythology You went all the way To unknown worlds Anything done to excess drowns us Cuts us down like wild dogs Nothing man has done on this earth Will remain on this earth Nothing but the fire of creation The music played down Rampart Street The voices of the children playing The Tambourines The poets eye across the Zodiac The laughter of the children in the night The poet walks home Floating in the sky.
A real poem A real poem bites the wind And kisses the star A real poem is not in a book Its a knock-out A long shot A shot in the mouth A crack of the bat A lost midget turning into a giant A lost soul finding its own way After a generation of mediocrity and vipers A real poem Kicks the politicians in the ass Kicks the poetry politicians in the balls Its too hot to handle It is more dangerous than war It is a firefly A rainbow for all