oh frigidaire
anoint thine ears
with coolant leak
order my thoughts
in quixotic brain matters
submit thy will to
boreal questions
noisily hammered shut in
midnight interrogatories
between the hushed drone
of an electric silence
and the nightly tempest
of the loud ringing
a jr. high shrill
lasting for minutes
or as long as time can
last before returning to
God’s eternal hum, a cosmic background noise of
imploded retreat, at once, in the vastness of space & time
in the worry of all that matters
directionless, like the many green leaves outside my window
clusters of green held in the hue-browned arms of random limbs emerging from the morning haze

you’d think they would begin to see a pattern
that guy in 509 that keeps filling out service and repair forms
repeatedly complaining
about an “intermittent refrigerator noise”
the properties of bliss
freedom from want
freedom to love
to follow ones heart
there’s so much bullshit,
charlatans, imposters,
thy will be done
grant me
aesthetic asylum
despite the unseen ugliness
the white noise of urbanity
does it ever really go away
once it has ceased to be
does it not linger inside your head
buzzing droning
in the key of electronic
the properties of sanity
relentless hope
measured predictions
thy will be done
like most things
you can count on
this dystopian garbage
postulated as holy artifact
on earth
to keep a few things fresh and cold
because if you can’t buy the 21st century
with wealth or means
you live as a pauper
watching TV, catching the bus
reading old newspapers, double dipping tea bags,
mixing water with old catsup, laughing at old jokes,
content with living in stasis
as it is in heaven
this stone age pavement zoological urban safari
while everyone else drives around on the mobile web
in brand new cars
with shiny rubber wheels
detailed and financed by
our daily bread
on tomorrows last dollar
or tomorrows last breath
the soul has sold out
to the bankers, the cloistered demons,
and sanctified pimps
forgive us our debts
What are the properties of Manhood
his works, his peonage, his word…
given as bond against
his own labor in absolution
as we forgive out debtors
for in His submission, He Reigns
rejoicing in the eternal psalm
lead us not into temptation
a carefully measured omission
deliver us from evil
held deep inside the frigid air
for thine is the kingdom
that makes silence
and chaos that destroys peace
and the power and the Glory
and the Love that hangs in the balance
and the Word that became flesh
Forever and Ever


the door

it’s all I can do to go
back and forth to work
there I can wonder how God makes poor children
without fathers and why he allows them
to believe that once in 2018 when Daddy gets
out of prison life will really be different
and believe that Santa Claus and Jesus
are white men that go about the ghetto bringing
peace and happiness to the Meek

I knew a boy once
a thin hungry child
that checked out cook books
from the grade school library
and during reading time
gazes at glossy colored
pictures of specialty
cooked foods, braised meats
in thickened sauces
with baby potatoes

the properties of Grace
unrequited mercy
a weathered lonely flower
surrounded by flames
pristine and unconsumed
burning for the weak
soaked in a necklace of gasoline
apathetic tears and
baptized in the angry fear
of a lynch mob
pity party

it begins with a shaking
in an eternal loop
the words come out
but make little meaning
something must mean something
something must matter
what are the properties of Love
silent hope
stoic faith
self-less Love
agape Love that penetrates
Television goes around the world
and has empathy even for those
who don’t speak English or know
who Jesus is

the 5th floor
where the doors are locked
and electronic buzzers
shuffle white coats
and shiny badges
during visiting hours
the piano
out of tune
and in ill-repair
on sabbatical tour
or just a 48 hour
once the threats have been made
once all the furniture, and potted plants
are thrown out the window
and come crashing down
once SPD, and MHP
are summoned
and the blithering fool
glassy eyed
tightly secured in white belts
with shiny metal clips
and ushered away
from the closed minded sanity
of actors playing parts
on the stage of complicity
the theater of life
the curtain of sin
a blinded vision
without Love
with people
who really don’t care
or know who you are
then you’ll know
just why we only leave
the house
when it’s absolutely necessary
why we do things
that other people call crazy
why we live only to die
before the living gets too hard

the miracle


Dear God

My window tells me that I can fly
but just like those that have lept before me
my wings are but invisible hope
dreamed in nightmares
by evil children
whose stoic faces
speak but still say nothing
of reason and love
of should have regrets
and just
in spite
of aging irrelevance
the greatest reason to live remains
as just an object stowed away
in a repair shop
on Rainier Avenue South

death as the conclusion of life
or an ellipsis…
as cessation of time
or cessation of things
is really all that matters
as the world ends
calling symbolic reference
to a sacred endurance
a bowl of cleansing water
made of holy wood
old people and
old clothes
worn souls retreated into silence
they love the church
great halls of fearful wondrous grace
on lonely pews of worn patience
and flickered hope
flawless pageantry
believes the love of promise
these private tears
this Holy presence
the Knowledge of Love
and of Evil
of good
and of hatred
dark spiritual forces
from beneath the cross
beyond the veil
of just who we are
in that secret room
after the last judgement
of rigorous Holiness
as we listened to Silence
in upper rooms

abashed by your
omnipotent impotence
right now
make me a miracle
right now
right now
and then
I do believe
and then
I do believe


I called my mother’s phone number even though
she died last year. If she would have answered I
don’t know what I’d have said. At night
I often think of her as the vibrations inside the walls
of my room make disappearing sounds like invisible earwigs
behind the refrigerator

She came from a generation of first. A generation that
overcame Jim Crow and laughed in the white faces of
their oppressors as they showed us that we were
just as good or better. The first negro (as they were called in those days)
to graduate from the University of Washington’s School of Nursing,
the first negro Head Nurse at Harborview Hospital,
the first negro to live at her luxury retirement apartment,
and it was not easy to be the first
and yet they did it, she did it, with grace, with
compassion and with Love, even for her oppressors

It’s the number I called from the principals office, the bus station,
from Tai Tung, the crack house, and the King County jail,
a number, 767.4792 , Disconnected.
disconnected from that voice of assurance,
disconnected from that powerful force of Love
disconnected from that Will to be the first
disconnected from that home
known larger than life
where Big things happened
known only as a child

and now, since the Love has all poured out
elapsed and sifted to the bottom of
the hour glass of life
for the first time in my life
I feel completely alone.

Untitled Poem # 58

the memory
of my penis
knows lonely Women
dismissive transexuals
& popular whores
even the manicured toes of that
buxom Nubian soprano I sat next to
in the church choir, where even then
we imagined folding her soft breast
beneath the careful lace of her $200 bra
beneath precision eyeliner & thickened lashes

her toes
painted, polished, presented at once
this Woman as in dreams immortal
in Holiness, in supplicant gestures
embraced in the bourgeois
detailed ellipsis of perdition
kissing the ass of God
ordained my faceless lips
forging my tongue in fire
gathered in the upper room
of her nakedness, aghast
and yet unbeknownst of my erection

this angel of heavens
this last vagina in
obsequious compliance
experience this finger fuck examination
searching coochie moisture
moving in wetness
waiting folded flesh


trapped between floors
this room of silence
so causally entered
day to day
up and down
the floors
boxed residences
also known as
the size of a someone else’s foyer
as an entrance
to a minds claustrophobic
the burning numbing cold
of no one knows I’m here
the shriek of being alone
talking to a speaker
manned by personal
impersonators working
for deceased bureaucracies
apparatchiks of dead communist states

once home
scurry to find
their places
like musical chairs
on a stove top
these roaches
my friends
they know their place
the smell
of African curry
of latent unwashed pussy
beneath colorful robes
these adornments
traces of the past year
wet muddy minus the vacuum
of my latest insincerity
I know the watchers
reverse watch looking
through the television
programming each of us
with Iphone frequency
false appendages of another’s
banal consumerism
forces rising
as socialism on
my favorite TV space drama
where money hunger and want
are things of the past
make me a bottle
of Jack

new images

a neighbors flower…

Mojo Blackman

Juju Black man
I know you got an
angry phallus
swingin in your
favorite boxers

avenge your Mother
& your Father 2
He’s got a lot of nerve
for takin you down
with no lubrication

the usual suspects
the Holy Father
baptized by homophobia
& the Boy Scouts best

superiority nation
likes to get it
in the station
eternal rapture
bout this simulation

Casey Jones
he was a
mad hatter
bent over
smiling face
only anal matters

I sleep alone
holdin the pillow
to the light
I sleep alone
.38 gripped tight

I’m in Love
with the nu-Nubian
Queen who longs
to serve her
New Master in waiting

boys grown up
to be killers
army ordered
switch to automatik

know it like
because you oughta
Solomon’s great,
great, great, great,
Great grand

Mojo Black man
twist it with your left hand
pimp it wit ya right toe
tell ya Moma shake it low
tell ya baby squeeze it hard
singin to the LAwd LAwd LAwd

a church in the storm…..

solo piano August 12 2012

solo piano August 12 2012 by rodger pegues E…!