HoboEye Poetry:
Jack Morgan, Berkeley, USA


KAYD

Today your driver is Kayd.
Kayd is from a country
you’ve never heard of.
You think it’d drive ‘em crazy,
but Kayd’s cool.

Welcome. We will be
arriving at the Oakland International
Airport in approximately eleven minutes.
Sit back and enjoy the ride.

Even though Kayd has never said this creepy message,
it is the thing in English he knows best.

Sit back and enjoy the ride.





Most peeps be like Kayd.
Most peeps Dough Know
in Oakland there be murder

ranking fourth in murderous
tendencies

Kayd dough know.
Kayd dough care.

Thank you, Kayd.
It was an enjoyable ride.





At the Oakland International Airport,
A double Tanq& Tonic costs 13.51
A small price to pay
for tranquilnoculation.

No good English Trav’ler
wants Malaria
or case of yellow
yellow fever.

I love you, Juniper Bush,
I’ll lick you all night.
Your sweet inoculation
makes me more callous.





I am sorry to ginterrupt, but:

How do you say your name,
Kayd?
Kide. Big smiles.

The Ivory from East Africa
is free. Just ask Kayd.
Kide. Big smiles.

Thank you, Kayd.
Your ivory is enjoyable.

To inoculate yourself
at the Oakland International Airport,
ranking fourth
in murderous tendencies,
costs 13.51

Sit at the mahogany
and smile. Try not to stare
at diamonds on fingers
not affordable.





Where did you get your name,
Kayd?
Kide. Big smiles.
East Africa. A country you’ve never
heard of. Big smiles.
A country where cities
are much more murderous.
Big smiles.
Somalia?
Big smiles.





Today your driver is Somalian.
Somali. Big smiles.
Today your driver is Somalian.
Today your driver has seen
more atrocities than you have seen
on NBC, BBC, CNN, or even…
CCTV.
Today your driver has had Malaria
and yellow yellow fever and

Today your driver has seen no ivory
no diamonds. No nothing good.
He dough know. He dough care.

Today your driver is Kayd.
Relax and enjoy the ride. Big smiles.





I could sing you a song about Somalia.
But you wouldn’t understand.
It would start with
O’ Somalia,

but you wouldn’t smile
Like the Canadian National Anthem,
it would be in French, English,
and Italian.
Some Somali.
But you wouldn’t understand;
some things don’t translate.

My Somalia song would not
be about bombs bursting
or red rockets flaring
nor anything having anything
to do with war won by anyone.

It would not have airplanes
or sexy flight attendants
named Tara.

My Somalia song would be about
the smallest purple flowers
the softest grains of sand
the orangest sun
the goldenest horizon.





She is an art deco bird,
like an albatross.
When she reaches
maturity, she will have flown
3.7 million miles;
her wingspan will have grown
to 11 feet

She crosses oceans for breakfast.
She hangs her slippers
on her toes. Tender soles.
She is a startling sight to behold.

I belong to the small and happy cult
of mortals who have seen her





The recycled air
gives Tara
the tenderest ivory
skin on her face.
and knees.
and soles.

Closes her eyes
to contemplate
her in flight
readin material,
In Touch Magazine,
a face being blessed

In the tender sun
of winter Washington
where every national anthem
is heard every day
except Somalia’s.
She has blue eyes ice.

I touch her tender
on her knee.
Tara smiles
down at me.
It’s ginger,
so I eat it.





The combined refuge
of America’s International Airports
equals several million tons
per day.
It is the world’s
fourth largest producer
of refuge.

Kayd dough know.
Kayd dough care.

Kayd has love & understanding
for my song.
Big smiles.





Have you ever been to Somalia?
No, Kayd; I haven’t.
You and I will go next year.
O.K., you and I will go
to Somalia next year.

Kayd and I went
to Somalia next year.
Our faces were blessed
in golden horizons.

There were many adventures
worthy of poems and stories,
but Tara smelled like Vanilla.



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