Anthology

Land of the Free, I speak to you,
Oh beautiful one, with my six percent
In my pocket for you,
Two or four weeks after the ides of March.

Always in my mind, never thinking
Of you, I say to your little ones -the ones You deny a number, that you are the Sweetest mother they could ever have.

Your invisible chambermaids clean, And sing with awe and disbelief,
The blood of the industrial carpet, Yes, they sing in tongues to you, as if!

Oh you, Beautiful, through me they chant, The ones in the Bay, whom your swiftness Hurts their minds and stings their skin They say they want a date.

Don’t look at me surprised, yes it’s me Talking, but its them speaking.

In me, darling, you have a man,
A lover, an artist of sorts,
A man who paints feelings with words, To you, oh Beautiful golden teeth whore.