with thanks to Margaret Walker and apologies to Allen Ginsberg

For my people,

everywhere singing

their slave songs,

their despair songs, self-hate

songs, for those who

don't know they are

singing another's song.

For those who have never heard of prayer

who believe transcendence Eastern.

For my brothers who would

disdain my brotherhood.

And especially for those who learn all  

instruments, move to Berlin to record

acoustic punk all solo albums,

with no knowledge of Faust.

For my playmates in the greenbelts

and beaches, bodysurfing, sandfighting,

jumping through fire on Norooz, brothers

who will never know,

Marco-Poloing in the pools

of perpetual summer.

Who play nylon stringed jazz standards  

in upper rooms and dance flamenco

in wrist-rolling delight

and cook and spontaneously collectivise

the unpacking of dishwashers.

Who get cooked in bars and preach it,

who bang the lumpenbogan drum,

transform inheritance into lint and dust,

Prufrocks who dare not even write a line.

For those who believe in

progress and the eternal trapped mind.

For those others who watch Bowden in secret,

deny beauty by day, make bosses rich,

who have ceased their drunkenness,

return to quiet nests to feast on satire.

For the futile kickoff crowd,

for the winter desert roar of freeways

reconciled by famous memories  

of girls on lifeguard towers,

the audience of after hours,

and seals commentating in the neutered bay,

For my people who are all of this,

for those who find out who they are

let a people loving grace

barrel out of sweated suburbs,

blast floodlights out of shoebox

apartments, send bonfires up

from vast estates of wool and beef,

so all will know, though it won't be said,

let the rule of thirds return to rule.  

let brothers sing in truth once more.