Power Plant in Asgard

by Erik Moshe

Night time is refuge for the energy-reclusive
solar powered firewalkers, physiques complemented 
by starlight's Carmichael driven off the edge 
of the wrong road at the wrong hour of the dark
this scene, diminished by the tertiary devices of a new sun
knows that many snooze during important eclipses
A full moon is not a bronze coin
cash it in if you’d like (dunesday discount rates apply)
exchange it for the ecstasy of a desert highway ride
full tank of gasoline planet - knuckles full of river water
passengers seated in black holes
Saturn’s ringworm children, tired from a day of repeated 
        plunging
jettisoning them from their nurseries, with a labor contract
lunar colony headdresses, hand sewn, 
hang from the jaws of a cave mage, like djinn braids 
dipped in oak wine, as liberated hands and wrists join
merging urban areas in Asgard, 
slowly making thunderclouds harvest-worthy
available for any argonaut farmer with the will to grow
sound the sirens, sign upon the dwindling harps 
hold your saucepans like wieldable anvils (brutes)
in winter scuffles, crush dissension with a refreshing sip
of an empirical tonic fit for a wicked king
its consistency, the same color as greed
         remembering
that Pluto’s currency has long surpassed hyperinflation
and this sea of repulsive otherworldliness
Is enough to make a newborn Odin flinch 
even here, renewable resources are far flung!
A mothership stranded in uncharted orphan plateau
searching for its origins in an airship-riddled sky

The Pale Crusader; Justice is Served

by Erik Moshe

The desert wanderer sits down for an on-the-go history lesson
He was a bonesman, Geronimo’s head in a tin under his bedding
He was a marksman, a statesman, had what you’d call an arrangement
Signed an agreement in infidel blood he’d have to honor with Satan
History books lie covered in a cloth by his satchel, embedded in sheets
Mankind’s exoduses through the ages, the dead ends that they’d meet
Gnostic anklets, anthropologic pages, Gods impeached
Lost in exchanges of Zimbabwean battles endured in Moroccan heat
This dark regime - perhaps out for revenge in irontown skirts
500 years or so of servitude tend to cause slightly aggressive outbursts
Picture a slave master looking back at you with a shrewd glare -
Harriet Tubman’s underground railroad system, no Standard Oil fuel there
It wasn’t fair, their skin wasn’t white, their eyes weren’t bleached
The singing newspaper concubines were chronic lies and a cheat
The righteous throne was plight endowed; the truth would strike at home
As soon as Rosa Parked her behind in the seat…
Black milk filled the corridors of government halls, homogenized in deceit
Things fall apart from the roots, sprayed down & sodomized in the streets
The pale crusader held the book, it said ‘This is tantamount, hear what’s left…’
Malcolm X’s and Y’s, alchemical properties of a man without fear of death
He slowly began to understand that his cause was a travesty
Around the same time Martin Luther’s soul took a fall from the scaffolding
Black panther, white tiger, brown lotus under a blue moon
Or was it once in a blue moon? At the time of slavery rotation
They made them behave but they were made to be bodacious
In the end, we’re all cavemen canvases, raised to be different paintings
When W. E. B. Du Bois was worldwide, when Ali contracted Parkinsons
Around the same time Mr. Booker Taliaferro went to Washington
The times varied but the stars in the skies were binary
On opposite sides of a black river, the white man traversed the night ferry
He was furloughed from facades, in a canoe, trying to row in the fog…
“Shine your light on the world, and black bodies will glow in response”
It truly pained the pale crusader when he finally began to understand
He ran his hands through the sand, started to cry just like a drunken man
The atonement of a sultan Bush - his race had slain, had stole, were crooks;
Then a band of Moors invaded his camp, slit his throat & stole his books

…justice is served.
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