MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS
if there is a God
I mean if there really
is a God
he must have stepped out
with my father for a smoke
the day I was born
just like God
to do something like that
on the most important day
of my life
I mean what do you expect
from someone who took a nap
the day his son was left to hang
out on that cross
but you really can't blame him
God, I mean
city life can be hard
and miracles have a way
of tiring you
out.
INSOMNIA POEM NUMBER ONE
tossing
praying for sleep
but God has no time
for insomniacs and
Christ must be busy practicing
for the resurrection
falling asleep for an hour
or two, or three
head churning buttermilk dreams
the holy ghost stopping in for a chat
seems like an amicable chap
swapping stories from the past
just as if he were one of the boys
as I gradually surrender to his will
dreams lined-up like shots of tequila
at a Mexican brothel
only to wake again and again
insomnia a heavily armored
Spanish Conquistador
takes no prisoners
plays your mind like a card shark
your body like a whore
in the morning leaves you
feeling like bits and pieces
of a ship wreck washed up
along the shore
FOR BILL
he keeps a photograph
tucked away inside
his meager belongings
three soldiers smiling
smoking cigarettes
a Viet Cong in black pajamas
hanging upside down from
a pole, gutted like a fish
flesh nailed to wood
Jesus fashion
needs no caption
guilt shadows him in doorways
under freeways
where he now makes
his home
incoming artillery tears
at his nerves
pieces of flesh stuck
to bamboo
like a piece of meat thrust
into a tiger's cage
Vietnamese peasants
suspected cong haunt
his dreams
like a faceless santa clause
leaving behind a bag
of body parts
FOURTH OF JULY POEM
stepped on, pissed on, cheated
and abused. Taken advantage of
blue collar man caught up in the
American scam. Don't tell me anyone
can be anything they want to be
if they put their mind to it
bullshit crap laid on like butter
on the working class sap
save your message for the
deaf dumb and blind
it'll never sell in the ghetto
or the immigrants you have turned
your back on.
high-fiving, jiving court jester
with an act as old as death
out of step, reeking from bad breath.
take your message to the church
tell it to the men on death row
tell it to the starving poor
tell it to the sick and lame
tell it to the rich men
tell it to the politicians
tell it to the serial killers
tell it to wall street
tell it to the man on the gallows
tell it to the cowardly terrorists
tell it to the last man at the Alamo
tell it to the chi sled faces on
Mount Rushmore
tell it to the Madonna
tell it to the whore
tell it to the last wino on the
bowery
tell it to the banker
tell it to the butcher
tell it to the unemployed
tell it to the circus clown
tell it to the insane
tell it to the outlaw
tell it to the in laws
tell it to the panhandler
tell it to the con man
tell it to the dead baby stuffed
in a garbage can
tell it to the displaced factory worker
tell it to the elderly
tell it to the Re-Po man
tell it to the academics
tell it to the last space alien
hiding out in Roswell
tell it to the militia
tell it to the FBI sharp shooters
at Ruby Ridge
tell it to the junkie with dry heaves
tell it to the farm worker
tell it to the dishwasher
tell it to the orderlies
tell it to the flag waver
tell it to the chinese peasant
working the rice fields
for a dollar a day
tell it to the garment worker
slaving away in sweat shops
in Chinatown and Latin America
tell it to the garbage man
tell it to corporate America selling
torture devises to enslaved nations
tell it to big business
tell it to our illegitimate president
poisoning the environment
tell it to the oil barons
tell it to the tobacco merchants
tell it to the children addicted
to television
tell it to the fur industry who club
live seals to death for the clothing merchants
with blood on their hands
tell it to the molested children
tell it to the battered wives of america
tell it to the pharmacy industry
dispensing billions of dollars of drugs
each year
tell it to the millions of people dying
from air pollution in Mexico
tell it to the psychiatrists who make
zombies out of mad souls
tell it to the man on his dying bed
not sure why he lived
or what he is dying for
tell it to Jesus Christ
shout it to the stars
line the traitors up against the wall
rewrite the ten commandments
and start all over again
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A.D. Winans (no bio available)
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