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Yellow & Red
An angular turn toward the sky,
A screeching yell
He opens wide,
Yells to the heavens...
Maybe asking, a Why?

He turns, twists,
As the thunder holds him,
Tightly grasps him, squeezes,
He yells, screeches,

His pain, in red and yellow,
furious anger,
it rages above the land,
above the white cotton fields,
above the singular eggs,
above the smell of death,

His pain, he yells,
Maybe asking, a Why?
The reds, oranges, and yellows,
The anger, the pain,
Always alone, never lonely.

His teeth, sharp
His tongue, drips of blood,
bitten too hard,
after a midnight puncture

A morning call
A nighttime fall
After hours,
No more

Liquid down, time to feed,
the wind breaks the silence
the passengers cross the river
the obesity, the unshaven, that voice above,
and maybe later,

A higher one.

His pain, he yells,
In yellow and red,
for no love can rescue
for no love can predict

He thinks they are fake, they are real
He notices one by one,
and takes a poll

He comes down
for a while
Watches the shadow
from a 12th floor window

Watches the rain,
the beasts,
the rich men too.

The arrested man,
convicted from his mother,
from gold to poor,
from a voice of no more.

His pain reaches out,
for a higher reason,
a wonderful dream,
not this time.

Yellow and red, slash them tonight.
Yellow and red, may I be yours tonight?
Yellow and red, he fuck her, she fuck him.
Yellow and red, my father

Yellow and red, a lover in bed
Yellow and red, he wants suicide
Yellow and red, one is good
Yellow and red, anger is food

His pain, it comes deep within
But surely you know,
It isnąt a jap or a hooker
It isnąt a nigger or a chic
It isnąt a gook or a cheese
It isnąt a pig or a fowl

Its that Yellow and Red.

The blood of anger.

You know what it is
What it is caused by.

Maybe you are part of it.
Maybe you are not.

Yellow and Red.

© 1997 David Greg Harth

There is a painting from 1996 that goes with this poem.
Click here to see the painting.