Poetry is Good for America
From the square plots,
Of clipped Kentucky rye,
And perfect planters,
Where porch colors fly.
To solace in the weeds,
Growing, flowing, refuse,
In between the cracks,
Of neglect and abuse.
“Gone native” they say,
As if it’s progress undone.
But nothing is ironed here,
Except the will to be one.
Statue-still and turgid,
Cordons of sinew snap,
Past the fugue, awake,
To an emergent need.
To shake the tension,
Unclench the fingers,
Loosen the ligaments,
Coax pain from muscle.
Thumbs ran rivulets,
Palms opening wide,
Sending the aching,
Suffering to the sky.
Drawn, as lightening,
Through pins and rods,
Fulgurites burst across
The broadening mines.
Shards of glass shelled,
Burst the earth’s crust
Try to exfiltrate. But dry
Membranes only crack.
Like oaken wasp galls,
Abandoned domiciles
Of paper dogma, hopes,
& nervous energy drift.
Impulses by axons, lift
Like a 747 afore ascent.
Latent, but in each of us
The potential for action.
While he was training,
She did unprepared.
Raising the little girl,
Visiting when she could.
300 miles in Caprice
The car overheated.
Rolling into a pitstop
Of just a single pump.
Sipping coke, waiting
With a three-year-old,
for the Hillman to fix
A broken water hose.
There wasn’t enough,
The check’d bounce,
No, they’d eat later.
Will you go to sleep?
The girl kept talking,
And worse, noticing.
A pack of cigarettes,
Six hours left to go.
Arriving at Ft Knox,
There was no gold,
But a sea of green,
Gems in geodes.
“You want to know
What mother did?”
Only if she wants
To tell, Nana said.
The girl dismissed,
Another secret safe,
And the transmission
Was the only neutral.
Running away,
Hiding in squares,
Churches, attics,
Cemetery, trunks,
The crawl spaces
Under the stairs.
Lungs burning,
Electrocuted,
Pressure boiling
Like kettled air,
Forced through
Narrow confines.
The wheezing,
Sharp whistle of
Ghosts escaping
Seeping sucking
Chest wounds.
Gases expelled,
Corpses return,
Of pleural space
to Earth and sky.
Pews, headstones,
Boxes and rooms.
Heart chambers.
But round flesh
Cannot conform
To hard corners,
The rigid edges,
Or square spaces
Of men we love.
A three second video,
Of kids in Tal Abyad,
Today, daring to peek,
From behind the wall,
Towards the smoke,
Linked on twitter,
Where we are safe,
Off the news pages,
With the banners,
Waving- Warning!
Disturbing Images!
You can click to open,
Or to make it go away.
But that’s not a choice,
For kids in the street,
Who have to know,
Who died today,
Who cannot go,
CLICK.