a junk man whirligig all packaged
in black carpetbagger moveable type
suitcase from Mardi Gras to coup de tat
fat Tuesday colored beads crucified neck
his flower power hair tête-à-tête
the lady standing reading Bukowski
knew his archetype a legend a mystery
tarnished silver gargoyles enlarged ring finger
boneskullery signs of the cross continue to linger
dyed purple tattoos inked like graffiti
written across the train scratchiti
sounds like a truck stop in Memphis
or Huntsville Alabama a pimp a prostitute
a preacher man all I remember tucked in
the top a copy of the poetry anthology lopsided
backpack objects he collected from his travels
this memoirist unravels he gathers his gear
as he began to leave whether a mountain man
it appeared unclear but in this urban environment
there are valleys and peaks dog sniffing thieves
cons liar sifting prowler predators duke earls
gangsters racketeers in his world he
anthologized what he saw did not need
a word just moonshine maybe a guffaw
privy to see this story standing in the
trains observatory
Author: Robert Gibbons
A wound in time (for Stephanie Wilson)
the ride to the coast
was a treat like
being offered a reward
for good behavior
but we had to come back
like a segregated recluse
to the center of the
sugar patch
we did not know
that exclusion had
been forced
its policy implemented
on the sides of our
school buses
divided like main street
there grocery stores
were better than ours
we never saw a politician
they did not need our vote
back then
we lived as separate
as barricaded
as that dyke that
held back Lake
Okeechobee
if it were to flood
it did not matter
we were labeled migrant
labeled bean picker
labeled corn shucker
labeled celery setter
labeled pea sheller
labeled sanctified
like US 27
left abandoned
and yet we did
not feel it
because my mother
told me to go
ride your bike like the rest
of the children
I did not want to
but I did she watched
me from the window
a barbershop on flatbush
it was if I had walked
into a coup d’état
a tribe of elders
a cri de coeur
old men sabotaged
by blue baseball caps
money green windbreakers
thick creole accents
old men
eyes welling up with distrust
checkerboard fingertips
developed lips
disapora line running across
their forehead
libations are given
for the earthquake dead
offered veneration
to Shango and Damballah
oranges and mangoes
called on Aya
transformed this barbershop
into a meeting house
looked around the room
for Christophe
a young Touissant
with muscle tank skill
shave my skull
saved my soul
this mea culpa
with rubbing alcohol and aloe
washed away the residue
looked around the room
and saw Mandela
Martin Obama
Malcolm Desalline
Aristide
a chair available
I knew I would succeed
not downtown
but the underground
missed an ambush
in this shop on flatbush