Our white-bearded cannon
fell silent—
The day became grayer…
I know, I know, I know, I know…
He was my Mom’s favorite funnyman—
She bought his books, his vinyl
Speaking to her like Malcolm
(she shared Turkish Coffee with
Malcolm on his trips west, fishing for men
but Mr. Gregory
was my Mom’s favorite funnyman)
I remember the mantra
He chanted like a Buddhist Priest:
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
Doubling us over,
splitting our sides, shaking our cores…
I remember the mantra
He chanted like a Buddhist Priest:
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
Piercing steel veils with X-ray vision
puncturing absurdities with barbed tongue—
Soul-ar powered bullshit detector
administering smell tests
I remember the mantra
He chanted like a Buddhist Priest:
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
“You youngsters got a lotta work to do…”
while coming as close as we’ve come to
Having a Super Hero,
putting his body
On the line, running,
Marching, fasting, speaking,
Teaching us to laugh
at Lone Wolves, magic bullets;
call out coverups and
Follow the money
where bodies are buried…
Source