Married Games

the dusky blackbird militia
sing away dap mohair suits
draping a tunic-tonic
for a black Allah in The Nation Of Islam

& on beset-with-perils backstreets
a peeling fever
tornado-swirl maxi skirts
bat-wing blouses
toe-nip lace-up, & The Harlem Shuffle

Kennedy’s with high falutin’ self applause
bed-hop the corporate military complex
& the mobsters
while Kissinger’s drag-ass ol’ lady’s
rubber legged on Martinis

in Zuckerman’s on 7th
a chick called Betty’s
looking plunk-fix on That Girl
funked-up ’bout roaches
black rats & fleas in the cookhouse
then . . .

. . . supercilious as Steve McQueen
in walks a little romance
a chaos magic all whoop-whoop
roll up the blinds “the cat, Jacques”
an uncut bow
& she thinks “hey, why not?”
& thunderbolt
there’s a go-go spinning Jackie Wilson
down the road apiece
a goo-goo love off-beat
& the moon’s sparklin’ like an Afro
fit to burst its glitter