Corazon de SanFrancisco ‘96

In a dense blue beet,

a rhythm of a long stocking kiss,

the wind-fog of a grey bridge,

Two chambers opened for the mist and the moon.

A tongue of charm and tooth

The bewitching wink and lash,

Amber and gold,

Golden amber

Round as a bassoon.

A notion wrapped in a beat box

of promises on a sunburnt bridge

that bound two tempos into calico grins,

thick as the martyrs bond and sweet as the blood of a savior

A hero in a hole,

love with brown eyes

beets the color of his pounding name,

pulsing in the sun,

raging from bridge to shore.

A Diamond dancing on a needle,

sharp as a gun,

strong as the midnight whisper,

soaked the beauty of the Hero’s dreams.

They came to water,

exploding like freedom’s first steps

on the streets of rocks and roses.

The Diamond and the Hero

in the heights and heat of San Francisco

set fire It’s electric spine

and burst the heart of an ancient hum.

Held blood and bridges,

held beats and breath

until the night could no longer weep

and the lights of the City sang their names!

D.A. Medina

A La Boom Boom (knot a poem)

When the doves sing in the willow trees

Or when they croon with

One

Another

As each day

Becomes dusk

Do you think they tweet about love?

I have my doubts…yet

Their sounds are sweet to the ear

And Lord knows you don’t have to try

To hear

A

God damn thing

That is whispered, murmured or mumbled

In your zip code

See if you can hear this…

My love for you is not a song

That for a spell

Is

Sweet,

Then in a moment,

Gone

My love does not

Spill all over you

Like a vanity fair

With compliments,

Promises and

Flower petals.

I will not write

stanza after stanza

About your eyeballs

Or the sound of your voice

I won’t become fanatical with the length of your legs

Nor will I stir up hysteria with lines

About the contour of your hips,

The delicate breath,

The end of winter

Or the last time we danced.

I will not place upon the page

That which has been said

By all the other

Monkeys

Concerning love and its many traps

I will only say this,

I see your spirit

And

It is a flawless

Diamond

The magic between you and I

Is that our spirits dwell together

And they have known one another

Forever…

D

Ode to the first Smith…

 

I remember when

it grabbed my ear,

turned it upside down

underneath that winded loft

in the middle of a harvest moon.

There

I herded my salvation,

garnered my reason

and found my way.

 

It was my Uncle’s tap,

tap….

tap tap tap

and the Smith Corona

wrapped around the paper flesh

that wooed me.

The faint smell of ink

began it’s swing shift

in my ole’ factories

as I peeped my messy head

above the horizon

of the last

loft step.

 

Eye

watched quietly

as my uncle hunched over

that typewriter desk,

humming to himself

out of key,

scratching against the paper grain

tapping tap tap

tapping

until his world faded away.

 

 

With lash and eyeball

I was stuck

on a ladder

as the moon glow

slipped

into

the tiny

window

above

his balding plot

that held the secret

to the story,

somewhere

in the folds of his brain.

 

It was my road to Damascus,

I would no longer

kick against

my fate.

It was the day

everything changed

and the night

I have kept secret

from all the other nights.

 

The mind’s river

swelled and                          bu s te d,

too fast for thought or intervention,

spilled the smallest seed of mustard

and dog

then

licked clean the snout and rifleman.

Rugged in Persian rain

and complaints,

the fantastic tongue

that speaks loyalty and sugar coats shame,

became mine.

The wide open mouth

that curses and gives blessings,

thee spring

that gives both saltwater to drown in,

fresh water for the driest tooth,

A baptismal water

for a young believer

to be buried in

and rise up in

the garden of

rock and rose.

The voice of a nation,

the screams of a whore.

Orders of French fries,

orders to kill,

orders for peace

And apple

pan

pies.

Words that make

men

fall

in love,

words

that push men

to kill

in the name of love.

A pot of sounds

blended and spoiled in the sun,

grammar for the stars

nailed to the

door on a note.

All of these were under the spell of the tap tap tap.

 

A Language lost in the garages

of Amerikkka

left in the wind of verbatim.

That incantation of the world’s words

infected my lonely brain

and sealed my soul salvation.

The same sounds that laid inside pop songs

and hid in the old woman’s pine,

The slang of the ghettos and jailhouses,

the dialect of lawyer and judge;

became an unending

solidarity

for me and my unknown

comrades.

 

 

It was that night my uncle left

the legs

of his loft chair

lonely

… I snuck in

and began

my

tap

tap

tapping

until I found

my

freedom.

My old world began to fade away

and my secret

utopia

was

manifested.

 

D.A. Medina

We are all in recovery

We are all in recovery.

Warm, naked and fed,

deep in bliss water

and heartbeats

fingers and toes free from fashion’s

snubs.

Wiggling in our amniotic masterpiece,

devoid of depression

wringing wet in true romance

and far from breakups and love’s letdowns.

Until the finest abode became stuffed with consequence

and sent us all whirling into the world,

Pushed, pulled and snatched from our sac of contentment

and

dragged out into the wind of expectation.

We are all recovering from our birthday

when we began to be a human being

stuck in skin and sex trying to work out

a wardrobe;

aging in blue, aging in pink

remembering gold

longing for silver

while our futures were handed over to

thousands of opinions

on which way to go.

We are all in recovery

from the mess on the sheets,

the panic in a woman,

the foolishness of a dog’s thrust

that

sent us all to rehab

with birth certificates

and licenses to work the day shift

while the sun lit up the world all around us.

Pushing pencils and pistols under the pillows

telling the truth and telling lies

about the first time we were really happy

with the unknown shuffle,

the barber chair,

the wedding cake

and all the reasons to be drunk

in the pit.

We are all in recovery.

D.A. Medina

What is Ralph Crammed in, if he ain’t yellin at Ed Norton?

what is sex

when you’re

home alone?

what is Amerikkka

without

the mobile phone?

what’s Macaulay Caulkin

if he ain’t sulkin’

In his pajamas?

what is Alabama

If it ain’t bleeding

or if it ain’t Beatin’

everyone brown?

what is boogie down

Without D Nice?

what is a cross if it doesn’t have Christ

what’s fried rice

if you

don’t add bacon?

what are the Feds…..

if they ain’t takin,

all your cash?

What is a gash if you ain’t packin heat?

whats a whiteboy if he rapped to the beat?

what is a stash if you ain’t got a strap

what is wooly if you can’t bust a cap

what’s bomb sex if you didn’t take a nap

what is  Mr. Google if He didn’t have an app

what are the Greeks if they ain’t teaching?

whats mr Taso if he ain’t preachin?

What’s a remora if it ain’t leachin?

what is battle without the beat bumpin

what is a horn dog if he ain’t humpin

What is a Hindu if he ate cattle ?

what is Seattle

if it ain’t raining

what is your girl

if she ain’t complaining

what is a hamstring

if it ain’t straining?

what’s Asheville if you can’t get drunk?

what is a dime is she ain’t got a trunk?

what’s Mr Webster if he wasn’t Monk?

what is doughnut if it can’t dunk?

Ooooooh  ooooooh

It’s like that I keep bonin’

What is Chewbakka

if he ain’t groanin

at Han Solo

what is a kid if he didn’t play bolo?

What’s water polo without white people?

What’s Big D if he wasn’t fair and equal ?

what is Frodo if he didn’t get the sequel ?

What is Consizzle

without the missing tooth?

what’s a long tongue without a kissing booth?

what is Topski without burning both ends ?

what’s  Thom Yorke if he didn’t have the Bends?

What’s

what is my chick if she didn’t have  a weapon

what’s Big Daddy without the half steppin’?

what is this rhyme if I didn’t say what

what is baby if you don’t wipe his butt?

DOOKIE…..

Ice T been hatin POOKIE

whats Gus Cutty

without the spray paint

what is a border if you ain’t got a taint

Ooooh oooh

its like that I keep spitting

what is a Panda Bear if he wasn’t shittin?

What is Medina if the beat ain’t hittin?

what is kitty if you can’t keep it wet

what is Smidi if he didn’t say “Bet”

what’s Big D

without the logorrhea

what is a toddler without diarrhea?

Whats Daniel San with out Miyagi San?

what is THE MAN if he didn’t have a pawn ?

what is this writing if I keep on and on?

What

jigga what

jigga

what

jigga

WHAT!!!

D.A. Medina

 

 

 

Ain’t nobody home

Ain’t nobody home,

she said and pulled her nightgown

into the shadow of the brown wooden

door frame.

I used to live here,

I said and tipped my baseball cap

as I stepped off

the stone porch

into the nightlight

that kissed all of my grandfather’s plumerias.

Then it began to rain

all over my face

as I walked the down the streets

of my hometown.

Millie’s new blues

(TO THE TUNE OF TOMBSTONE BLUES BY BOB DYLAN)

Ode to the Lit-up Losers…..

The Hamburgular and His Heroine hold down the hoe stroll

While Disney and Facebookers are draining your soul

And the whole wide world is under control

Of the Signal’s hum and It’s power.
Newton and Tupac have left us alone

With gravity’s consequence on the Sickest third stone

And Adam is sleep walking, missing a bone

Holding hands with the snake in the Garden.
Mama’s in the whorehouse

She’s looking for booze

Daddy’s yellow pillbox

Says he just can’t lose

I’m in the jungle

With the blackball blues.
The symmetry of Venus is on the newsstand

Laughing at the candy bars “this must have been planned!”

The Nuts and Diabetics just whisper, “Isn’t this grand?”

While the clerk sifts the dope in his apron

Modern man’s sickness is smiling tonight

And the seeds of my saint’s day just doesn’t seem right

But the Jolly Green Giant has forfeited the fight

For his rights to his beans at the flophouse.
Mama’s in the bathroom

She’s cooking up chris

Daddy’s on the borderline

Holding his piss

I’m in the Desert room

In a blacked out bliss
The Joker and Robin both have gone home

Leaving Batman and us sad folks “like …seriously alone”

Tell me My Captain in the most solemn tone

Is it better in the hellish here or the hereafter?
Footballs and teen spirit are holding us tight

Wearing their numbers and fighting to fight

I think somebody better turn off the big light

And send Babe Ruth to the gallows for his hanging.

The bar rooms and gun shops are stretched the seams

The stars on the playground are grinding their dreams

With Cheswick and Kobe on opposite teams

Still the crowd screams for blood from the chickens.
The Queen Mary and the Love Boat are losing their shine

While Julie and Isaac are cooking up swine

The Muslims are angry but Doc says “it’s fine,

can we please get some courage for the lion?”

Aww Mommas at the courthouse

She’s Lying with men

Daddy’s got the top bunk

At the old state penn

I’m in the liquor store

With my bottled best friend
the best things in life are lost in the breeze

Faith, Hope and Virtue are down on their knees

culture vultures hover, spreading disease

In our mission streets in San Francisco.
Cindy and Bobby Brady are getting their fix

While Rerun and Potsie are plotting bank licks

The magic is gone all that’s left is light tricks

Is there a drink for me in the kitchen?
Mama’s in the whorehouse
She’s looking for booze
Daddy’s yellow pillbox
Says he just can’t lose
I’m in the jungle
With the blackball blues

 

Ode to the lightweights without the Light…

Spoken to the tune of “Tombstone Blues”

The Hamburgular and His Heroine hold down the hoe stroll

While Disney and Facebookers are draining your soul

And the whole wide world is under control

Of the Signal’s hum and It’s power

Newton and Tupac have left us alone

With gravity’s consequence on the Sickest third stone

And Adam is sleep walking, missing a bone

Holding hands with the snake in the Garden

Mama’s in the whorehouse

She’s looking for booze

Daddy’s yellow pillbox

Says he just can’t lose

I’m in the jungle

With the blackball blues

The symmetry of Venus is on the newsstand

Laughing at the candy bars “this must have been planned!”

The Nuts and Diabetics just whisper, “Isn’t this grand?”

While the clerk sifts the dope in his apron

Modern man’s sickness is smiling tonight

And the seed of my saint’s day doesn’t seem right

But the Jolly Green Giant has forfeited the fight

For his rights to his beans at the flophouse

Mama’s in the bathroom

She’s cooking up chris

Daddy’s on the borderline

Holding his piss

I’m in the motel

In a blacked out bliss

The Joker and Robin both have gone home

Leaving Batman and us sad folks “like …seriously alone”

Tell me My Captain in the most solemn tone

Is it better in the hellish here or the hereafter?

Football and the spirits are holding us tight

Wearing their numbers and dying to fight

I think somebody better turn off the big light

And send Babe to the gallows for his hanging

The bar rooms and churches are stretched the seams

The stars on the playground are grinding their dreams

With Cheswick and Kobe on opposite teams

Still the crowd screams for blood from the chickens

The Queen Mary and the Love Boat are losing their shine

While Julie and Isaac are cooking up swine

The Muslims are angry but Doc says it’s fine

We all need some courage for the feeding

Aww Mommas at the courthouse

She’s Lying with men

Daddy’s got the top bunk

At the old state penn

I’m in the liquor store

With my bottled best friend

the best things in life are lost in the breeze

Faith, Hope and Virtue are down on their knees

culture vultures hover, spreading disease

In our mission streets in San Francisco

Cindy and Bobby Brady are getting their fix

While Rerun and Potsie are plotting bank licks

The magic is gone all that’s left are snake tricks

And the same old lies from the Garden

Mama’s in the whorehouse

She’s looking for booze

Daddy’s yellow pillbox

Says he just can’t lose

I’m in the jungle

With the blackball blues

The future has no formula baby

The future has no formula baby…
It’s all Jazz.
It’s the ultimate

improvisation.
No script,
No plot
Except the one that the Big Man got.
It’s not

in your 401k

or retirement plot

and it’s most assuredly not

in the hole that your

head is buried in.
You thought you

thought it
Through
Quite thoroughly but in real time it’s just a

giant knot that they got you tangled up in,
They star spangled you up again
(Singing D’Angelo style)

“And they laughin in yo face once again, got yo mouth up on they hook…one mo gin’”

It’s just the same old lies

strewn from the snake’s green eyes
In the Garden of Eden with

Eve and them
And after all that, the wars and the bullshit

reasons for war, after all the millions and

millions

of innocent simple folks Uncle Sam

murdered by the bushel…

the smoke cleared and we all got in gear behind

television fear,
We forgot about the lies and believed again.

Amnesia is the state that we ALL are licensed and insured in.
The Rat race

marathon where

Nobody keeps winning

it’s
the Worldwide Web

that we are all happy to be stuck in.
The reason we all keep

running in circles trying to

eat,

drink

sleep and watch the watch-box.

It’s all Jazz baby,
It’s the worst notes sung and hung on the wall with the Karaoke speakers
And the speakers aren’t speaking anymore they are screaming

“Die you fucking shaved monkeys!”

“But die slow so we can get our flow…”

Drink your miller’s light

wear your team’s colors.
Swallow

the pills

they give you

and wash it down

with holy water

and try to find the time.

Have you ever seen Miles Davis

tap his feet to find the beat?

Never my man,

He was the master of improvisation

he rode that wind without a scowl or grin,

He is one of the main reasons they stopped calling us boys and the reason we call each other men.

You all cannot bob your head to anything but a four-four,
What will you do with a 6/8 or a 12/8?
Five time?

What if it swings from Staccato’s branches?
Or hangs from Legato’s leggings?

It’s the new bowl of gumbo;

sling shot around the corner on the first day that your pension plan kicks in odd meter

(Somebody spent it)

The future is improvisation my sissy boy nation!
Jazz is improvisation
And it’s the truth.
The truth never sounds the same any more

The Truth wears no make up and has Its own schedule and agenda.

It’s everything that you think will last,

everything you thought would last.

You sweat up your shoes

and pulled out your hair for the future!
You planned without the plans my man!

Does the architect build his dream house with dreams that he drummed up while

dreaming?
I don’t know about you …

but me?

I’m always scheming…
hoping and

believing,
And just banging on my drums

to whatever beat

choose      

  in 

                             the 

                                 late

              watered

          down 

evening.

D. MEDINA 14’