324
Passing thru elevated ramps, bricks
& brownstones, K.C. style
nightfall, the light still photo
op red, not dead, a pack of
brothers, a knout
assembling from angles
like pool balls shot
from the mystery's edge--
one straggler thru the
windscreen, head back, shouting,
Brother, houseparty on,
I park on a NO PARK zone,
leave my Honda, the key
still standing, dash on
after my Abyssinian, Zen,
Islamic, Baptist brothers, the one
token atheist pink in the
bloodlight of the dying sun,
humming "Kansas City,"
I die in K.C., of knife fight
karma, Jesus lambskin death
my birth, my inherent
mantle of victimization,
no brother mother
sister lover no friend.
Nica's Cats
not thinking
calico dues, it's
Sunday all day long--
the stuff from my nose
like yellowjackets
stunned, the
ground round crumbly
in the pan, I start
a Dexter Gordon video,
the Maintenance Shop, Iowa,
red spots, blue,
Rufus skinny, Afro'd,
not thinking,
forms of night--
the sun outside the actual
window blurs into
the evening waiting
for itself,
not crooning
am i blue?
Copyright © 2004
Jim McCurry. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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