Wednesday, January 6, 2016

The "Know Not" Advantage

A Brutha’s Rhapsody

A lime green Olds ’77 sits 
in the empty parking lot
of the Black and Tan. 
Its gold-fleck paint
catches the last rays of
rose-colored sunshine.

Migraine-inducing bass
rattle rusty bolts,
falling into a moldy ocean 
of pirated CDs,
and black market gear.
He leans back on heated leather,
and takes a long, slow drag
of his medicinal,
savoring cannabis
through clenched teeth,
Zig-Zags flow from
open suicide doors
to join yesterdays’ headlines
on barren streets.

He nods his head
in time to his favorite jam 
under the flashing “open” sign
as suffocating clouds move eastward.

 rainwriter jones @2014


Last night as a lied awake, my mind began to wander.  I thought about how I previously believed that the homeboys on the wall of the bar and grill across the street were the unfortunate ones because they lacked knowledge about the world at large.  All they know is the immediate day-to-day needs/wants of only themselves.  There in my bed, I had a revelation:  we are the unfortunate ones!  Why?  Because we have the knowledge that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. We worry about world affairs, homelessness, near-Earth objects, religious fanatics, global warming, the Dow Jones average, unemployment, life-shortening health problems, impoverished third-world countries...

They are oblivious to anything other than themselves, and wouldn't know nor care about anything other than heading to the next bar, screwing some dim witted female, or playing their car stereos so loud that hibernating bears would awaken from slumber.  The only way they'd know the world had ended was if the bar wasn't serving alcohol that day.

Well, who's more fortunate?  The one who knows, or the one who knows not?

rainwriter jones

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


Closed eyes bring darkened patterns
of red and black
from a distant sun,
and visions of home
far, far away.
A slight breeze,
and a touch of cold
as Winter relents to Spring
on this desolate planet.

She clears her visor
with a gloved hand.
Flowers clutched through polyurethane
are cautiously carried to the shelter.
Pungent are their scent;
rare are their form.
For flowers have not bloomed
on the Martian plains
for eons.

They capture the essence
of a terrain forgotten with time.
When waters flowed and blessed the soil.
Now red dust is sprinkled
with uranium waters
where crystals drift downward,
then endlessly float into frigid skies.

The rains affect perfume intoxicatingly mysterious,
and toxic with radioactive splendor.
How they sparkle in the Martian twilight:
a present for her beloved.

hempdresser ~

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Angel On Rims

I saw her on 21st Avenue one Sunday morning.  She wore a dark shroud,
wrapping her body in its entirety; a miracle it didn’t catch in her spokes.

She road on the sidewalk in an attempt to block my path.  I would have none of it,
side stepping her, indignantly walking onto the grass.  I was stubborn:  didn’t want to hear the music she played from her boom box, a tune for which I was familiar.

She appeared day after day wearing the same shroud, playing same song
from her boom box tied to the back of her bike.  Until one day she wouldn’t
let me pass.  She stopped in front of me, and revealed a pink garb
beneath the layers of black.  A face so gentle, motherly. 

I asked her, “Why do you play this music?” 

She smiled and moved her fingers, “It is for you.”

 “But why would you play music if you cannot hear?” I asked, puzzled.

 “Because it is your song.  It is for you to hear.  I play it for you.”

My messenger fades in the morning light.  What haven’t I heard?