Poetry

On a narrow plinth in the corner 
of the gallery, a stone portrait:
a man, his mouth unlipped

Pink is the Tuscan sunset. Pink
Are the Vietnamese monk pates
Bobbing under Piero’s True Cross.
Pink is plenty, pink is joy.

Wine between cacti and carnivorous flytraps,
our bodies syncing to the DJ’s bad decisions,
I can’t stop getting turned on

                                     leaves a race behind
                 takes on the music                                      pop
                 its relation                                                    to capital

In the dream my mother pours
a gallon of milk over my head
because her boyfriend held my hand
under the table.

                                    Universal Studios of riot 
                interspersed with whites holding
guns and carrying
people away.

Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,
red-veined with a fine fuzz:
canebrake pitchers
hooded against the good rain.

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows

I see visions        in my head of Heaven 

I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven 

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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive.