(Listen to the spoken word track here.)

There he goes

um-humh that’s him

Willy Shakes

the upstart scarecrow

and derelict poet

of the barrio and bodegas—

gin rummy seizures

and shaker of visions—

hangnail to a scab

dude rips it up

like a disco physician.

You don’t believe me, sssshhh, listen:

Of time and punishment

let us whip the eyes

into form-fitted shape

a poem

a sonnet

or screeching of blown-out tires

and backalley rants

sealing redbrown bricks

with hothouse excrement—

in other words

if someone gives you shit

spin it into gold.

Take it from me

Willy Shakes

No Holds Bard

when I say—

Ask not what your poem

can do for you

but what you can do for your poem.

See what I mean?

Judge not by the blade of his bones

Willy jockeys the disc of moon

between digits

scratching psalms

into any and all hearts

eager and ready to receive communion.

Willy’s the original Google.

He knows witches, wenches, Olde English cursive,

midget clowns, and who’s your daddy Patricide.

On top of that

dude’s a deep sea diver

and high gravity romantic—

every night he revives

his lost love, Ophelia,

with a fifth and a kiss.

Willy knows the blues ain’t meant to be swept under the rug.

Fulla sound and fury and a pinch of salt

Willy runs numbers

and lyrical discounts—

a penny for your thoughts—

is what he hustles,

the Upstart Scarecrow

ripping off the big bad Raven

who flies the coop, squawking: Nevermore, nevermore.

Willy’s bones might look stiff

but he knows how to get down

between breaks of line

and schisms—

You could say he specializes

in gray matter

and razored drizzle.

Hold up, hold up, he’s coming to—

The Revolution will not

appear on your iPad

or be an intravenous vision

administered via Facecrack—

The Revolution will

be the dream-child

of Love’s Labor Regained

and fractures mended.

Grief hidden from the ages

will take its rightful place

at the head of the banquet.

And I’ll be there, pom-poms and manna,

cheering on the voiceless and unsung,

the merciful meek and the time-worn orphans.

I’ll be there in spirit

and in flesh,

counting blessings

among the roundness of dreams.

See what I mean?

That’s the found stuff

Willy spoons up from what dreams may come—

No virtue, No sin

just grace-slicked dignity

banking on the capital of

Love.