In the heat of noon
As he heard his heartbeat boom,
As he felt like his body burn, like an inferno lit goon
At the hands of an angry mob
That needed something to eat soon
Or else consume his burnt meat this afternoon.
He knew like a rocket lit for the moon
He had to quit the room.
What kept him from fleeing
Wasn’t the heavy browed hounds
Neither was it the furor’ed crowds.
No. it was the voices of the hollowed grounds
That seemed to accompany borrowed sounds
Of death machines that followed around
In sync with the motion of sorrowed and proud
Sons and daughters walking atop harrowed clouds.
People he believed he had to liberate.
Still he had to first swim in spit full lakes
Prioritise between them or bouts of fitful sex,
He thought of fooling the children with fist full cakes
That were for certain in the least full bakes.
Still he feared to seem to them a deceitful snake
Waiting to eat the egg yolk of the ever watchful duck and drake.
So he made film with insightful takes
Of road rage, dog deaths at the paws of cars- flightful with no brakes.
He then wrote a letter to Lady Luck
Which began by him asking if she were maybe black
And what she meant when she said ‘she’d be back’
Yet she was never there whenever lightning struck
Neither was her voice heard when the days be dark.
Because if so at least someone from where they daily lurk
In the street corners would’ve seen her
And said, ‘There be Luck’
Unfortunately that wasn’t the case
For immediately he turned to leave with grace,
He violently broke an expensive porcelain vase.
And funnily by looking at his face
Or the empty spot above the fireplace
Where it exuberantly filled the space,
He knew he’d accomplished a Coup de Grace
And slouchy bent down to tie his shoelace.
Then he knelt and looked towards the skies blue and grey
And in a manner similar to a member of the opus dei
Spoke to God as taught by Father Lou to pray.
Only this time words didn’t come yet he had a lot to say.
Still he cared not if his voice was a moo or bray
And he spoke to God asking Him what games little Palestinians and Jews play
For him to learn, then maybe the jeers and boos away
Would be replaced by acceptance and love in a baby’s goo goo way.
And the angry mobs, machetes and arrow tips
Would be as soft as Cupids arrows and as the lips
Of Venus. The venomous snake hiss
Would be replaced by a seductive lisp
And the results of ethnic violence in place of seeps
Of blood and burnt body crisps,
Would be laughter in between sips
Of different brews where the tribes shared recipes.
The dark skinned fellow was told
To show the masses the honeyed side of the comb,
To show them wisdom of the ages old
Way before they were corrupted and sold
Their kin, land, values and gold
To inhabitants of lands distant and cold.
To bring into the fold
His peoples flock. To lead a generation bold.
