Where is my American Spring?
Black screen revolution? Henri wishes he had him some.
Cut me off at the plane of my peace
where Henri, wobbling, falls into one of his five books.
Wrapped only in the blue of his flag, his thing.
The hypermarket is in flames
he stammered to himself, pulling at his leash
Henri will not be a part of it, despite the backlash.
There is no longer inspiration from J.B., all he speaks
of is an Irish sky this, that-that. He just smoke & sat.
Covered in the memories of his pop,
who with a pistol did just that.
Go on, see what I am insisting with these streams,
the poet & his work an island, white love like a drink.
From the first song where one hid the day
well, I’ve only those few hours to think,
spilling, gathering himself up at the seams
watching the nation slink, away.
