now you know the one: black on red
christ in a beret over every group house bed
staring right past a point far above our head
right through the flyer on the wall
chomsky and biafra, free at the UC hall
hoods and patched up backpacks out to receive the call
for a war they might never fight at all

somewhere in havana, a man kicks the door of his studebaker
he tried to trade rides for oil but never could find a taker
as the engine belches smoke, he sits on the hood
stares at the bay and silently curses his maker

you know the one: red on black
cool as new year's eve and real as a heart attack
staring from past the point from no turning back
watching the mess from above
stacks of books, cds and letters of complex love
noist heads, unmade beds and surplus time
and lines that never seem to rhyme

grandad came from norway in the spring of 1912
nana immigrated from austria the fall of that year
fourteen year olds working fifteen hour days
in the rail yards and mansions of st. paul

grandad worked for the unions when being union got you dead
he ran for congress in '48 and almost worked as a red
but the son of a bitch wouldn't pay for his daughter's college
and he did not like black folks - don't be mislead

sometimes i wonder what the old dude woulda made of broken windows and pink hair:
would he throw down his old world sneer? would he care?
maybe he'd cheer
maybe he'd just find the twins game and sit back in the old chair and pop a beer

now you know the one.