Thursday, April 23, 2015

Scratched Vinyl

I lowered the needle to the record,
Bobby Pickett’s name tumbled,
like pants in a dryer;
circling round and around,
on the plastic turntable.

“I was working in the lab late one night,”
it began.
And The Monster Mash tumbled
like bones from the speaker,
filling my bedroom with sound,
at 45 RPMs.

Then it did what it always did. ...It skipped!
“He opened,”
“He opened, He opened,” ...Smack!
“the lid and shook his fist
and said, ‘Whatever happened
to my Transylvania twist?’"

Saturday, April 11, 2015


The tide may finally be turning,
but the lives of black men
who died unjustly in our streets,
and in the death row gallows of America,
will never be recovered,
from the sea of bigotry
that washed them away,
like so much driftwood.
The best we can do now,
is walk to the water’s edge,
and seek to make amends.