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.