Under The Light Of A Full Moon by A.D. Winans

moon

UNDER THE LIGHT OF A FULL MOON

born at home premature
under the light of a full moon
I walked the jungles of Panama
fed off Beat Mania
in the streets of North Beach

Shaman poets sang in my ears
under a bed of stars young
women with dresses
that clung to firm thighs
damp dark cavern
wet as morning dew
peach fuzz dinner
drew me in devoured me
like quicksand
the sweet fragrance of the past
mates with comrades long dead
as I walk back into my birth
work my way through
the sound of water

the wind propels me
towards my destiny
my boyhood gone
like an old jalopy used-up
rusting in an auto junkyard
I head toward the comfort of the now
nailed to the cross of the past
in the language of the present
with no words to light the fire
as I carry the memories
like a mountain climber
with a heavy backpack
vague memories of my mother
singing me to sleep
and the chill of waking
the tongue of dawn cold as dry ice
the hawk sweeps down for the kill
a dog howls at the moon
a cat yawns in boredom
the universe draws new boundary lines
fragile as a new born
the monkey rides the master’s back
the coo-coo bird moves backward
into the clock
fearful police lock and load their guns
black boys moving targets
in the night
voter suppression laws to keep
the voting down
southern barbecues
with rednecks hungry
for black “boy” stew
gone the passion of revolution
sell out satisfaction to
the status quo
the night hound of death
stumbles into the day
the rich roast the poor
like a pig on a spit

labor unions turned into mannequins
fuel the fire of Wall Street
the war machine moneymakers
bleed the blood of our youth
like an undertaker dresses the dead

the Roman senate proceeds unabated
turn out gladiators like machinery parts
endless parades marching bands
and waving flags played out
like a Disney Land production

slaves without chains
government without representation
this nation of criminal politicians
the ghost of Custer rises like
a creature from the lagoon
creeps through the night
like a faceless Santa Claus
with a bag of Indian scalps
Allah competes with the Pope
for the rights to the head of Jesus
beheaded by ISSA barbarians
back from a night of slaughter
as the congregation stumbles
like a drunk into the future
carved out in the hands
of a gypsy fortune teller
as I wait out the night hours
in solitude
shut out the demons of insomnia
like a faulty light switch
the holy of the unholy
money exchangers
make and pass new laws
laws that feast on the bones
of the poor and dispossessed
a future where animals
turn into animal crackers
and wingless birds hop frantically
around the dinner table
with carving knives in their breasts
serve themselves up as holiday feast
the angels occupy the cheap seats
at Yankee Stadium
god sends down a bolt of lightning
dismayed at the flawed diamond
he created in his image

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