the wannabe baraka poem

the inside of the head, a thorn
cranium. wistful starlight, gone to town
with daisies for hair. cracks
in the mirror i smile at.
alone with its silent thievery.
i can be lost and alone. that's just the way
it is. churning
through history, i turn
the pages. everything
has a frightening wetness,
heavy breathing hot at the window.
my soul doesn't exist (goddam, i thought
i took care of that last month.)
except for the reflections i hear,
since they make me laugh. things
scratch around causing the dark
to wander about, bumping
into shadows.

when the rain, if, not that i care
but just in case. i'm getting
away from here. fog in mystery
and silence cut in half.
figure that shit out.
they come to you trilling
a flag song and you wind up
brain damaged listening too long.
i'm getting to where i'm getting to,
but damn if i know where.
some spread thigh
for thoughts of romance. it never
sounds right when said out loud.
i don't speak now.

forever. they sell you on that.
now that we know better we better
get on down, no telling
which bogeyman we be
afraid of come tomorrow morning.
a materialist's wet dream. i seen that
koochie waving in the breeze. ain't no change.
we all get here. get lied to.
one by one we all leave.
same thing each time but with a different color
never before seen. did you see it?
flaming wings of grief.
you can dance.

can't you?