I KNOW WHERE RAINBOWS GO TO DIE
On the death of Bob Kaufman

I KNOW WHERE RAINBOWS GO TO DIE
                      I FOLLOWED YOUR FOOTSTEPS
              ACROSS A STRANGE UNCHARTED LAND
                                WHERE SILVER WHISPERS TRIED TO HIDE
                       BENEATH DEMENTED SHADOWS
                                                          AND OBOE SKIES
TOGETHER WE WALKED THROUGH A FABLED CITY
                                                    OF HALLUCINATING GREEN
                                            AND TALKED AWAY
                                                  A THOUSAND SMOKING NIGHTS
                                      AS YOUR ACHING HEART
                                                      BEAT ITS BONES
                           IN TIME TO BIRD’S BRILLIANT SOUNDS
                                 OVER THE NEON STREETS OF MURDERED SCHEMES
YES I WAS THERE
               AND I SAW YOUR LOVE PROCLAIMED
                       IN A FRACTURED SMILE
                  LIKE YESTERDAY’S HEADLINES PRINTED IN BLOOD
                                  ON A BUMBLE BEE’S WINGS
                          AND YES
                                    I WOULD WEAR YOUR EYES
ON JANUARY 12TH
                   THE DAWN CAME UP
                            SINGING THE BLUES
                           THE CALENDAR FELL APART
                                      IN THE FACE OF THAT WOUNDED SUNDAY
                          AND EVEN THE REDWOODS WEPT
                                    AT YOUR PASSING
            BUT NO BELL TOLLED IN THE BOWELS OF WINTER
                                      THE SNAIL DID NOT GRIN
                           AT THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK
                    NOR DID ANY ROSES GROW
                                              FROM THE TAIL OF A RUSTING COMET
            ONLY A WOOLLY STARFISH GROANED
                                                            ON A BEACH OF STOLEN PLANETS
                     AS A TATTOOED LIZARD
                                                   SHED ITS SUIT OF COLD ECHOES
                 AND YOU DANCED WITH HARLEM’S GREAT KINGS
            DOWN THE ALLEYS OF PARADISE
                                         TO A FEAST OF BLAZING UMBRELLAS                            
I REMEMBER
             LONG GONE DOORWAYS
                       WHERE ANCIENT DEALERS LEANED
               AND SOLD THEIR TWENTY DOLLAR BAGS OF DREAMS
                                    TO THOSE IN NEED
                AND POET
                        I SAW YOU BUY THE TRUTH
                                               IN A RED BALLOON
                                             AND LIKE SOME MYTHICAL ALCHEMIST
                                                     YOU COOKED UP THE BLOOD OF STARS
                                                  BUT INSTEAD OF DEATH
YOU DREW MUSIC FROM YOUR SPOON