If I say pulled pork in the summer, you think Old green sweaty kitchen, in boiling potatoes and collards pinching your nose in desire.
In the 60’s.
Or is it sin, that keeps you awake after Boris.
Just stubborn enough, like an old rusty nail, pulled pork,
Like we know him, really.
We know him only in that place, where All Souls meet and greet,
And, nothing is forbidden.
Selling wares like Sammy Davis on a street corner,
You got some tiiiiiiime for me?
You got some big girl blue,
that cruise ain’t no body prepared for,
That Katmandu gonna sing you,
the night they drove ole Dixie down and all the people were singing,
War and pestilence and
Blood, these hands, these bloody hands,
Like Botacelli in a jar sealed tight. Spice.
Sweating in the kitchen,
Sweating your soul on a surfboard, blackboard, cutting board, boardroom.
At least one fin up,
In that time of cholera, and liniment, choking, swallow, swallow, don’t swallow, going down….
Green walls don’t talk.
They paint, they paint me,
They save me,
No, no, not in the kitchen,
In brown beans and cornbread, and a prayer.
in brown corduroy,
Ain’t nobody got time for that,
You got nothing on green walls and cornbread,
Dripping in the milk.
Back to peeling tomatoes and killing chickens, my Love.
They think they know it all, already,
Ain’t no sunshine when she smiles.
In an old green kitchen, full of peace.
You gotta know what your walling in or walling out,
No fly zones, Baby.
Like Taj Mahal at the Improv,
Now we slice the bread.
Like a good girl.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.
Ain’t no shame.
You gotta want that peace like cherry pie in February.
But she says it all the time you know,
Like rain on Sunday, and ashes on Wednesday.
it gets between your teeth.
Just stubborn enough.
You got some candy in that cupboard? In that peace jar?
White starched tee shirts on an ironing board,
in an old green kitchen.