Stephen Jarrell Williams

In the beginning
his hum from the other room,

electric typewriter
writing novels,

touch of money,
taste of fame,

alias name
welded with fire,

atmosphere of brilliance
his printed words.

We fell asleep every night
his three sons,
young dreamers
listening to his quickening
constant tides of thoughts,

typing
tapping
dancing
walls heated by his ideas,

ceiling disappearing to sky
visions with stars

disbelief of his sudden death

we continue to write like him,
lightning streaks
lit by our chase of gods.

Escaping
on backroads made of scars

across a checkerboard country
of red and blue

carrying books of faces
and words of prophecy

tattoos on skin
graffiti on walls

telling the past
and now downfall of our land

we know the truth
has been twisted

chaos has come
head-butting with horns

but deep inside
we will live on

century after century
we have not been here
to come to an end.

She closes the car door slowly
Leaving me as she cries

Middle of night
Crescent moon
Deserted road
Corn crops tall in every direction

She walks away
Head down
Miles to the nearest halo of light

I turn the car off
Get out and follow her

My car door left open
Keys in the ignition
Headlights on
The back of her beauty
A magnet
Pulling at me and the stars above

She says quietly
I just want to wander for a while

And I let her
In my silent
Guilt

Her sadness to know
Everything
She thinks and won’t tell

The stop sign
No longer stopping her

Tearing at her dress
Gasping for the years
To speed up and slow her down.

World so still
between chaos eruptions

temporary quiet
giving hope a glimmer

memories moving in
heart settling

tranquil breeze
erasing tracks of tears

faraway rooftops
unseen decay

bent trees
appearing like bushes

rush of dread
highway near empty

path of smooth travel
places to visit

when yesterday had a future
promises and dreams

steep sky lifting
a blue moon.

The restless crowd
Wearing the cloth of change

Infestation of our own doing

Friendship with fury
The tragedy of blame

Cough stains
A haunting hope

Free-for-all
But no one free

Most in a slow fit

Doing our time
Until done

When the rains come
Washing it all away

In floods and fire.

We’re back but not bent
On the bottom list

Darker down here
Stars brighter

Easier to walk streets
Unnoticed and malnourished

Scribbling notes with a sharp pencil
Ignoring background traffic

Our brains on lines of poetry
Words and feelings struggling

On breaths of hopeful wisdom
Never knowing if we’ve started a riot

Robot flesh still kicking us aside
Deleting our factual history

A one-world-click
Ultimate maze of misery

They pass us blindly fixed
As we taste the final fruit of Spirit

They snake higher up their skyscrapers
For a longer lean into a fall

Funny how the few of us
Outcasts to oracles

Usually end up in silence
Sitting on a mountaintop

On breaths of hopeful wisdom
Never knowing if we’ve started a riot.

stillness over the streets
over the land
over the mountains

everyone stops
with a spirit to listen

this hush of sound
telling us
so much we do not know

we bow
asking Providence
our purpose

before the storm
blows our flowers from the fields.

Come hurt me
With your stinging rope of an attitude

Stripping me down
Watching your turquoise tattoo dance

In front of a curtainless window to the world
Your sexy smile and sharp teeth white as lightning

You’re a one-night woman
Unbroken by no one

As I die in all my tomorrows branded by you…

Off balance
They keep us
From liberating ourselves

Numbing our news
Hyping our games
Locked in with thumbs up

Omission of truth
Covered over with false flags
We’re nonchalantly hijacked

Speed in our milk
Salt on our wounds
Born dream-drugged

Eyes drifting backward
Butt heavy
Brain light

Expendable
At this rate
Waiting for the mushroom cloud

Hell
We’ll probably throw confetti
At the special effects

Stir-crazy for more
Guzzling drinks
Pinching the next-door neighbor

She’s an ample broad
Eagerly kissing the frog
Anything for a sex spank

When we finally fall
On our smug faces
We’ll just call for room service

The guy in red tennis shoes
With an endless appetite
For more and more of our ignorant souls.

Time ticking
Our tilted heads

Only flesh fearing the inevitable

Infinite space the heart of God
Spirits living within that beat
So sweet
Never crying again

Forgetting all of this
That we have done.