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poems:
Jack
Freak of the Alchemist
New Orleans
Do You
Bucket of Questions


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Freak of the Alchemist

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listen to this poem.


My hands would be stone
if it werenít for the fire that burns in my chest
branding my heart with the spirit
of the one who creates rainbows.

My hands would be butterflies
if it werenít for the fire that burns in my chest
branding my heart with the spirit
of the one who makes war

IĎm a army of opposites at war with myself
my gut is a battle ground of duality
Iím a freak of the alchemist
the double edge fire that burns in my chest
is fueled by passion
and horse shit

When Jesse got 99 years
I laughed
I looked in his sons face
and cried

I shouted for womenís liberation
but cajoled her to fetch my coffee

Last week I stop a fight
today Iím gonna start one

Some people ask how I got so sensitive
others want to know what makes me so mad

I shake my head at drug users
but make excuses for my gin

Gonna buy my baby a lot of toys
and I donít believe in Christmas.

Iím a freak of the alchemist
My hands are part stone
and part butterfly

I feel at home
with friends on the northshore
and family in the projects

Iím a Ex-Marine
Who feels despair
about hungry Iraqis

A starving artist
with a four bedroom house in the burbs

A poet
who believes in censorship

I want to be liked
and I donít hide my flaws

I celebrate my negritude
and I never had sympathy for OJ

My star is illuminated
by poet
and football

Iím a freak of the Alchemist
my hands are part stone
and part butterfly

Chuck Perkins