Friday, October 31, 2014


For the benefit of dying honey bees I planted my front fields in clover, though in late spring when the green blooms white I am always reminded of Arlington and sacrifice, death. Thoughts of death take no day off when the clovers bloom. Though no heroes lay beneath the home grown tombstones, it is rending to remember that some must always die for life to go on in freedom and the fragility of that hard won freedom, easily usurped and taken. And when the home grown tombstones go away and all returns to the expanse of green I do not forget the season just passed, nor my battles fought to be free even if it means there is no one left to see a sole memorial blossom temporarily marking the death of me.

© M Durfee

Thursday, October 23, 2014


In review I look at the list of things I have yet to do, both want and need. I know with each passing season the reason becomes more critical and less desirable. I am though, become a slouch not quite ever ready, willing, or wanting to get off the couch. Lazy? Maybe. Tired? Sick? Yes both the latter definitely. It is this place, this concrete covered space, this union between racism and harmony that takes motion and holds me (e)motionless. White ofay devil that Jesus has no love for with the your boot on the black man’s neck still, and ever will, the nigger pricks never had a job or worked at anything harder than rolling dice to win a gun used to murder, drugged schemes, rob babies of parents dreams, killed by prison stretches. Wretches is all that’s left living in this arena, lion or prey. Kneel to pray no never, never ever bend a knee before a preachin’ dog who robs the poor box. Special folk who keep that box key in the pocket of a two thousand dollar suit hanging in the back seat of a seventy thousand dollar ride, now pimped out on thirty sixes. Doing the Lords work is the last profitable employment left in this world cut loose from the rest. Fuck them all, the white baby rapers and the black pulpit pimps who only look to their own while telling me I don’t motherfucking belong simply because I be white. There is so very little right left in this place that it just marches along ignorant of its own ignoble end. I can’t be sent away or forced out and being a thorn in this crown of racist filth is worth the idleness of dreams not worth moving for.

© M Durfee

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


I am living in the garden grown, one of the many seeds sown. I make no determination towards my beauty of being or appalling uselessness in the gardener’s seeing. I was birthed in this place and given no conditions to how I should grow. I would like to be a flower plucked to make a bouquet for a lover’s heart, yet it is not my fate to determine if I am good enough to be a part of that kind of display. I may after all be nothing but a weed choking off life for something more pretty or useful than me. No life can resist its fate, be it bountiful or, another kind of life to abate. I am but a simple thing grown from a seed to fill a space until I have proven I am worthy of life in this place. In silence I my fate await and ‘til the seasons turning no matter my physical being I will enjoy the rain and the sun as my simple reason for being.

© M Durfee