Apollo Theater,
mild December morning,
James Brown uptown now
R.I.P. 1923-2006,
body barely cold

coffin splendor caisson drawn,
Around block, down 125th Street
Two white horses, black men high hats,
Outpouring Harlem whole world,
Godfather soul, funk master
rhythm blues boss man band leader,
barefoot boy beyond Georgia dreams.
My own white face, white hands
in thick of proud crowd black street last stand
fingers snapping, feet tapping.

I like to look at beautiful women, from afar,
like the beautiful woman I’m looking at now
cheek-bones sensual lips brown hair warm smile,
a beautiful woman and a poet, too, reading beautiful poetry, though

her beauty makes it hard to hear her words, her proud boyfriend
sitting in the seat next-to-me, the audience seemingly as amazed as I,
and now my turn to read arrives and
I stand in the place where she stood
bathing in the radiant beauty of the body left behind,
look out at audience, read my poems,
gaze from afar into her beautiful brown eyes.

I am the they
Who say,
I am the they
Who don’t make things like they used to,
I am the they

Who don’t value life the way we do,
I am the they
Who can’t be trusted.
I am the they
Who will eat you out of house and home.
I am the they
Who don’t appreciate the finer things of life.
I am the they
Who better get a handle on it.
I am the they
Who will lie through their teeth.
I am the they
Who don’t believe in hard work.
I am the they
Who don’t know their place.
I am the they
Who are a bunch of thieves.
I am the they
Who ain’t no fun anymore.
I am the they
Who don’t take responsibility for nothing.

He leans forward in animated conversation
Doing the talking,
She appears to be listening
But could be thinking of something else
And is a very good pretender.

Between them are plates with portions half-eaten
Littered with the crushed stubs of cigarettes
Indecisively lit and then forgotten.
He has some beer left in his glass
She some wine.

Her complexion is coffee with cream,
Imperfections concealed or non-existent.
His white face is
Paler than hers and
Will become rounder over time.

Her chin is dimpled and her lips full
She purses them well and pouts effectively
As she teases him with an occasional white-toothed smile.
He picks up a disposable lighter
Gallantly lighting another smoke for her.

They come close, face-to-face
Her chestnut eyes glisten beneath
Arches of ebony that blend with her
Shoulder length hair.
His curly locks lack her luster and are temporary.

She is amused by something he has said
And discretely brushes a graceful hand
Across his hairy arm
Where he has rolled up his sleeve.
He watches her do it.

He is wearing a large silver wristwatch
That is made to look expensive.
His white shirt is not buttoned at the collar.
Neither is the next button down.
This is not a mistake on his part.

She is thin. He is not
And will become less so while she may become more so.
Her clothing is expensive and well pressed.
His is adequate for the occasion
But that is all.

He whispers something that makes her smile.
She holds her cigarette down below the table
With her right hand, brushing her shoulder with her left.
She is wearing a wedding band.
He is not.

A camarero approaches the table.
“Termine?” he asks. “Quiere algun mas?”
They shake their heads and he requests la cuenta
She leans away from him, pulls a compact from her purse
And studies her face.

He sips the rest of his beer
Stealing peaks at her over the top of his glass
While the camarero returns with the tab,
A slip of paper in a saucer
That he leaves in front of him.

He reaches for his wallet.
“No,” she tells him emphatically.
She stubs out her cigarette and
Pulls the white saucer toward her.
He relents too easily.

She extracts a designer leather purse
With a brass clasp that matches her handbag
And tosses a fifty Euro bill
Onto the saucer.
He eyes the bill and smiles.

His “Thank you” is a mere formality.
The waiter makes change.
She leaves a small tip,
Carelessly stuffing the left over bills
Into her handbag

While she searches for a cell phone.
She gives it to him-
Arrangements need to be made-
And heads to the aseos
as he makes them.

She is gone longer than is reasonable
For accommodations that have neither a toilet seat
nor paper.
Meanwhile, he is calling and shows
No impatience.

He finishes his business before she her’s
And waits for her in the doorway of the café
Watching a forgettable football game.
When she emerges they exchange smiles
Their eyes bright.

They walk away together.
But he is just a step behind.

Zogby’s poll could not conceive
A code red would befall us.
Yet we bore witness, did we not,
to an oxygen deprivation of logic?
Our collective conscience and consciousness
succumbed to a political hypoxia,
slumping into a coma of denial
taking to our beds,
surviving upon the life support of
Nascar, Bud and burgers.
Immobilized and somnolent,
In a Schiavo.
Stirring only in involuntary fits
that encourage quack doctors
to stick their fingers in the wind,
to prognosticate and hypothesize.
To mine the gold of resentment
and hatred of the down and out
like schoolyard bullies.
Diagnosing by video
where their personal advantage
could be found.
Prescribing bottles of snake oil
hysteria labeled “life support”
like flimflam carnies
behind pasted smiles
with their props of bibles and flags.
Does anyone notice?
Or are we too entranced
by the Gospel of self-righteousness
that pervades these,
our united, persistent
vegetative states.