Church of Tokenpoke

Saturday, shimmering sea-blue;
the hot summer, suggested
by the cabbage trees flowering
the hot summer has started early.
quickly. I worked a 3hr shift
at the recycling job, moving cages
about the compound on a battered
yellow forklift, emptying the refuse
in the old white tip truck
with the broken door that flies open
on corners unless held with the elbow
on the always down window,
and a bare, bent, thick wire
instead of the accelerator peddle.
Then I came home, and by one 15
I was working on the paintings on the floor,
the door to the ocean open,
filling the room faintly with motor fuel
and hot concrete and tap water
from the slipway. for the last hour,
on this original sabbatic day of Saturn,
from the neighbours somewhere
Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits has been playing
the same repeating loops which I drew
into the lungs on the white sticks
of ‘nope, I aint goin’ home yet’,
I haven’t packed a cone for I don’t
remember how long ago. but hearing
the boat growl, the insects of Summer, feel
still the Stoner’s hip-nah-tism
and the taunting of the wrkng dna
to Get up, Stand up— and I had
to get up, off the floor, where I was painting
tonal squares to accentuate the depth
of a central window effect, got up and got
the pencil out to wonder
what, exactly, my Rights were?
What are these rights we’re asked
to stand together to defend? I do not
know for sure, but I’m confidant, I am certain
enough to say I doubt mister Marley,
or his cricketing entourage really
considered Zion the right path,
Bah, Jhal or Hova neither. Know
women who cry at every little thing?
She does. It’s magic.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sun, through Summer,
shines directly onto the sea
-facing windows, and is often bright
beyond useful.
We do not hurt each other
we attack an idea a system of words
an order of mathematical portents
we cannot possess a hurtful feature
we are one water into another
a medium in which things may be added
and these additions clash not us
the unhurt water of any disaster
whatever calamity of person, splash.

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2 thoughts on “Church of Tokenpoke”

  1. Like the cutting in and out of music/song lyrics, Dean, second John’s comment above. Good to peer through that door ‘ajar’ in your poet/painter’s daily life, and that sun
    ‘often bright beyond useful’, is it not our art itself!

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