We will stop racing to topple foreign regimes that we know nothing about, that we

            shouldn’t be involved with – Trump


Patti Smith read Footnote to Howl on our first night

at Blues Fest, threw the poem on the floor & spat –

holy punk & common cold thick with holy mucus


She didn’t sing People Have the Power

but recited it as a giant poem

Patti Smith was a giant poem


We screamed – everyone was screaming

like when Buddy Guy played guitar with his ass

& when Buffet came on, how we realised

that Parrot Heads are global


(my parents in Florida are Parrot Heads

we sent them a photo of the crowd)


Bonnie Raitt sang the night

Trump dropped the 21,000-pound bomb

she was sexy at seventy, smiled sideways

slid those strings

like they were broken hearts

having a hoedown at a bar & grill


She was mad as hell – everyone was

because the world had to bear witness

to Donald Trump, & after the bomb

there was no turning back


It was our fifteenth anniversary

we were babies though we sagged

& cracked, slept in our tent

touching through the cold night

holy snaking legs & arms


In the morning we woke to pounding propellers

aeroplanes dropping skydivers

parachutes disappearing behind tree-line


For breakfast we had egg & bacon rolls

at jacked-up festival prices

because we didn’t want to cook


& fair enough, it’d been a hard six months –


Bonnie Raitt could’ve written our soundtrack

Patti Smith could’ve written a poem


holy women of the word


Love chips away, but sometimes you wonder

how much of the chipping is us & how much

is the wearing down of the world


This was our time to mend

& when the Doobie Brothers

came on I kissed you after

every song


We were free, privilege so webbed

between our fingers we swam

through the audience

holy water holy waves

holy holy         

school of fish


Each time we found our perfect view

it felt like the universe was making room for us

& I think it happened in every tent


Who could blame us for being confused

thinking Afghanistan was so 2001, history the silence

after war, the contemplation we then turn into song


The night of the GBU-43 we were drunk on ten-dollar beer

Mavis Staples sang March Up Freedom Highway

2017 not ’63, still she’s rasping


whole world is wonderin

what’s wrong with the United States


Trump’s Mother of All Bombs

spent in an Afghan grave


We hated that they were calling it the MOAB

because we’ve camped in the thick

of Moab’s red-rocks, slipping each day

in heaven’s clay, washing it off in the Colorado

& when we laughed in the canyon, it echoed

Holy bliss, holy gladness

holy holy



Moab demanded our respect, not the other way around

like Bonnie Raitt & Buddy Guy & Rhiannon Giddens

(I cried when she sang about flying away)


Music makes sense of our world

made better sense of our marriage

than we’d been doing since October’s election


& here it was April, in love again

so we talked about returning in another five years


swatted away what-ifs like we were doing the shag


death never an option.

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