Black Water (a poem)

Thursday, April 3, 2025

What are we, on this wagon—
that same to be off, apparently,
yet we ride,
just long enough
to watch the elites' dreams come true.

Heading west,
even the young men
got sick back then.

The trail—
onward to Portland,
with a cult
and some backwater religion.

That black water
keeps me warm.
Slumming it down in Tacoma—
man, I love this crew.
They are my people.

Tribes so brittle,
but if you find love
for a second,
hold on
as long as you can.

Up and down the coast—
San Francisco
all the way up north,
La Push, Native America,
and the cold morning air
on the still water
of the harbor.

Fresh salmon,
king and silver—
living large,
and we worked for it too.

The advocates—
the kind of devils
that can’t afford Prada.
Hood loops.
Unhinged,
but only on rare occasions—
like just before a covert op,
including
carpet bombing
of the more populated regions,
regions,
loop.

Cheers to Chief.
A round for the survivors.
One poured out,
and another,
in honor of the north winds.