Jack Micheline

from 67 poems for downtrodden saints

It is Dusk

It is dusk and the wind is flowing through the treesone black bird flies in the skyblue clouds over San Franciscoa freight train is heading northtowards the Oregon mountainsa bird is singing on Telephone wirespurple flower of hopeI am hopeI am the cloud and the pair of trousersI am on the mountain above the bridgesI am the lone flag flyingthat is the heart of America forgottenI am Walt Whitman now hiring a photographerI sharpen my pencil with my teethO red flower of the universeO magic flowerget me high

Poem to Bob Kaufman

Born in LouisianaThe wail of saxophones paraded in the skyBlack son of rainMarched down Bourbon StreetYou walked the streets of North beachout of your mindA golden sardineOut of the desert concreteOf American mythologyYou went all the wayTo unknown worldsAnything done to excess drowns usCuts us down like wild dogsNothing man has done on this earthWill remain on this earthNothing but the fire of creation The music played down Rampart StreetThe voices of the children playingThe TambourinesThe poets eye across the ZodiacThe laughter of the children in the nightThe poet walks homeFloating in the sky.

A real poem

A real poem bites the windAnd kisses the starA real poem is not in a bookIts a knock-outA long shotA shot in the mouthA crack of the batA lost midget turning into a giantA lost soul finding its own wayAfter a generation of mediocrity and vipersA real poemKicks the politicians in the assKicks the poetry politicians in the ballsIts too hot to handleIt is more dangerous than warIt is a fireflyA rainbow for all