there it is again
the tilting back of the head
the three-syllable laugh
like the father’s
a renaissance cowboy
without a ranch
see the lost horizon
in his eyes
the lonestar in the wood
sailing stones across the sand
A wild wester in a civilized land – mh clay
Injected venom shoots
through her veins
daggers shove deep
in soft folds of belly
Womb scraped
then scrapped
tainted and splintered
take all her honey
drain her of lifeblood
Still, thrust deeper
Frack her and fuck her
Mine her and maim her
Smother her screams
till quakes are her cries
and death is her dream
We just won’t stop until enough is all gone. (Read another mad missive from Sharon on her page about the OKC Bombing – check it out.) – mh clay
I’d rewind that Wednesday
morning when Tim McVeigh
and John Doe loaded ammonium
nitrate in a yellow Ryder truck
and blew 168 souls to Kingdom-Come
Confetti of files and flesh
floating between sinking
concrete slabs and jagged re-bar
would swirl and swoosh back
to where it came from-
(I parted the sea, remember?)
Files would fly back
to cabinets marked A-Z
flesh would fuse back
to bone and muscle
last breaths would suck
back into breathing lungs
And the long-faced firefighter
would give Baylee Almon
wearing little yellow booties
back to the policeman
and the policeman would
tuck her back in the rubble
And all the rubble and mess
would stick back to the structure
like it did before this hell on earth
and Baylee would go back with Colton
and Chase to American Kid’s Daycare
and back to her mom giving kisses
If I were God
I’d rewind that day
all the way back to Tuesday
when Baylee blew out one pink
candle on a birthday cake
and licked frosting from her fingers…
Under belched clouds
in Nebraska’s sunny sky,
irrigation pumps
chugged staccato rhythm,
a zombie cadence
for marching pubescent pluckers.
She walked through
miles and miles of corn
heat swollen
erect wiry-haired stalks.
No breeze ruffled
green leaves,
tousled yellow-silk tassels.
A budding song played in ears,
The summons for snatching
male tassels
buzzed and buzzed.
She yanked sticky plumes
with sweaty palms,
pollen speckled her face.
August slipped by that summer.
It wasn’t her plan to become
part of monster Monsanto
or lose her virginity in a cornfield.
She was earning money for college.
Innocence turned to unintended complicity, caught in the coils of the combine. – mh
I
drag horsefeathers
behind yesteryears
heaped end over end
in a pinewood box
I
tally tarnished trinkets
skewed round my wrist
leave laurel leaf tokens
down long littered trails
I
bounce words beyond
bemused canyon walls
channel futile chants
enchant no one at all
I
howl hallelujah
moo monomanic mantras
pray to plump moons
beam syllables into space
I
swallow fertile eggs
scramble serpent shadows
heave heavy yokes
seep pollen into sky
I
store silent faith
married in my marrow
gulp opal shots of verve
make maps on the wind
In early morning light,
large black eyes stare
from his shower-fogged mirror.
He compares his profile
with worn photo of his father.
Once, his mother stitched it to a secret
panel in a sleeve of her silk tunic
to hide her lover’s face from Viet Cong.
His mind wanders back
to days of childhood.
Cruel taunts prattle
from Vietnamese tongues,
chattered whispers return,
full volume.
“You children without fathers
are like homes without roofs.”
Fucking Amerasian dirt.
Ugly bastard left-over! Child of dust!
Who’s your Daddy?
At Model Nails, he scrubs
dead skin from feet, massages
lavender in cracked soles,
trims toenails, hundreds of phalanges.
More than two decades he worked,
stooped over, bending, twisting
from a little red three-peg stool.
He greets customers
with white toothy smiles,
massages legs in habitual
up and down rhythm, hums
an ancient song his mother sang
while she washed clothes
on muddy banks of The Mekong.
If she were here, he’d paint stars
and stripes on her nails, fireworks
or perhaps a blood-red flag
with a sinking yellow star…
Come to escape a nightmare; hoping to grab the dream – we don’t notice. “A natural finish please and I’d like a glass of white.” – mh
little brown eyes peek
behind white cotton sheets
she listens… muffled steps
steal lightly down the hall
she holds her breath
shivers in dark
searing heat
counts pink paper roses
climbing up the wall
One… two… three…four…
now he opens up the door
rough calloused hands
on her white soft hips
inside her tummy
belly button
rips
Five…
hurry Mommy!
Six…
roses are so pretty
growing on the vine
oh so pink
and pretty
seven…
eight…
nine..
The only escape, free the mind; count the roses, climb the vine. – mh
