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Oh yeah, I know about that dried-up creek down the road. The water ran right on off to our
house. I keep it clean in the tub -- put a bit of bleach in your bath if you want. All that salt keeps it real soft. I ladle it up in a bowl outside for the cat. She came back here the other day with a brand new tail from her cougar friend. Now she actin’ all big and purrin’ at night. Must be calling out for some Tom. Maybe he’ll come, and they can stay under the porch. Need to run these mice into the woods. We can’t sleep with all those eyes under us! Only the Devil would be watching like that. ... Published in Ethel Zine
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I can’t stand you, so I have to be honest. It’s time to replace that star you’ve been wishing on.
It’s done you no good. It’ll do you no good. You’re praying to something that might already be gone -- a glimpse of hot gas that once was. You should wish on a rock, even if it might crumble. Haven’t you been held? Haven’t you been thrown into the water? You’re not too good to trip someone up. Forget the bodies of stars with no mouths to drink. Build a foundation in the pit of your gut. I might just be there waiting for you. We could climb your throat to gaze at all the teeth — those yellow-white bricks lined with spit. It’s a perfectly good view for you. But then again, that’s just how I feel. I’m no scientist or whatever. ... Published in Ethel Zine The sun burning bright:
A Mississippi Wednesday Covered black and white In smoke - gun gray. In the fields of June, they shot Medgar Evers by the home he made. In the fields of agitators In the fields of slave labor In the fields of Klan coppers In the fields of sharecroppers In the fields of picked cotton In the fields of rights forgotten A cry for justice rings unafraid. The sun burning bright: An American weekday Covers left and right In smoke - gun gray. ... Created for Birmingham Civil Rights Institute Watch the video! All omens are personal. Some are for old men with teeth in their pockets. Others are for mothers with ten arms and four legs. Mine is a silver dollar that I didn’t give to the man under the bridge. I planted it in autumn, but I won’t make it to spring. The girls say I’m too busy to pay attention. But who can watch the ground when the rain might come? If I drop dead outside, they’ll keep the homegoing short. You’ll know me by the hours of the birds. Count ‘em slow like you love ‘em, like you meant to do it, like you’ll miss the sound of the last wings. Baptize the fried fish and white bread in hot sauce.
... Published in Height Chart (Middle House Review) Some unboxed words
should be left alone. Those boxes hold jewels for my hair, spiders for my light, peaches for my sink. Don't use 'em all up. I pick a few to go with my baby teeth. ... Published in Roadrunner Review - after "Pilot Verse" by Matt W. Miller
Now to write a book of birth, eighty pages edged in gold. Now to crack back the ribs to peer inside fresh lungs. Now to scrape the cavities full of meat and metal ends. Now to spit into open hands thronging the empty flames. Now to let loose the wails waiting deep in my throat. ... Published in Roadrunner Review Dark, kind woman. Big, bright woman.
Hard, proud woman. Bold, light woman. Back straight. Head high. Wide smile aglow. She's shining in dim places and bursting into small rooms. Ain't no fist that can hold her. Show us who you've always been. Show us the way to the future. The universe moves forward, and she's calling back to you: Woman. ... Created for Shipt |
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