holler body
i feel an
unstoppable,
unending,
gut-wrenching,
hair-losing
sadness
that i can’t articulate.
i’m not missing anything
but
how do you describe
empty
except as the
absence
of something else?
i feel an
unstoppable,
unending,
gut-wrenching,
hair-losing
sadness
that i can’t articulate.
i’m not missing anything
but
how do you describe
empty
except as the
absence
of something else?
I know, I should trim the creek bed weeds
and pull them also from the garden beds,
then as well along the path’s edge,
between stepping stones. Most anywhere
a weed could grow, it seems I have it
here, verdant and defiant, prolific in
its constancy. As many times
I pluck, again it rustles up above
the earth, as to remind me I must
reconsider worth and work.
Much better to just to dip
my toes, listen, read,
though I should trim
the creek bed weeds,
I’d rather root into this poetry.
Men in Black
Black faces
emerge
streaked with sweat
nostrils flared
sucking in fresh air…
The morning light
opens their eyes
white teeth shine
with home going smiles
meant for another day.
Warm water
washes away
the aching night…
clean faces
emerge…
But, inside
in the deep hollows
of their breath
the wages of their labor
grows dark.
It is a life
no one appreciates
but everyone expects.
Tony Sexton
after White Zombie
It’s right here baby right here on the planet
of pretty kills the planet of petty shrill talk
from the cynical boob tube rube-trapping
Bible-humping motherfuckers impregnating
the American flag with acid and high cholesterol
and transparent Aryan wet dreams baby
right here where you stand it’s like the hand
of god come down with a smack it’s like
a seaside resort of tear-gas currents and
cyanide daiquiris this is the planet of the boomers
hippies yippies yuppies Gen-X puppies
and millennial wide-eyed babes baby
the mirror-fuckers the screen suckers the digital
tunnel-vision look-the-other-way motherfuckers
like all of us we waited just long enough to see
everything turn so goddamn white our curries
taste like mashed potatoes we waited for
a universal uniform of beige overalls before
celebrating the beauty of chosen wardrobes
it’s all here now the bodies in the streets
that bone-spur fully-formed sentient id hiding
in his bunker the mothers crying baby
the children crying baby the bloodied
nightsticks baby the motherfucking doctored
footage baby the echo chambers crashing
into one another baby this is our psychoholic slag
the sludge we have to dredge through because
me and you and mommy and daddy and
mamaw and papaw and uncle and aunt
and on and on and on and on chose chains
over communion chose invisible walls over
block parties chose silent time bombs over
a rainbow chorus of motherfucking fireworks
let’s talk baby let’s dance baby let’s dance until
the sun breaks in and we can help clean up
It’s always there behind me,
Watching me,
I ignore its constant whispers about what I should do,
About how I should act,
I Live in the here and now I tell myself,
and I continue with my day,
But i’m followed,
The past never leaves,
Everyday it’s whispers become louder and louder,
Until the day I listen to what it has to say,
And the day I regret what I’ve just done
“Miley, you’ll be the great big blue bird in the city,”
He said as he rapidly twisted his thumb over his fingers,
Not able to articulate that my name is actually Emily,
But putting the letters in an order of his own,
Giving me the greatest compliment I’ll ever receive,
Even though it’s meaning is still a mystery to me.
You see, that was the last I would ever get to speak
With him, my most brilliantly authentic friend.
Schizophrenia is one hell of a riot.
Did you know they still prescribe Electroconvulsive Therapy
When nothing else is working as quickly as the mind
That sharply rearranges letters to create new words,
That makes poetry out of every thought,
Throwing out phrases gilded with assonance, consonance,
And even alliteration better than any wordsmith?
I’m not saying it doesn’t help some-
What kind of expert am I,
Having only worked in the field for a year?-
But I do know that now he can’t even
Talk.
can’t get to nothing in these foreign cars
ain’t no space between things
must have little baby hands over there
look how them cables connect
God help you if you need to get to something
underneath
end up taking out half the motor
tiny little thing
ain’t no horsepower here
can’t be
they used to make good vehicles
right here in the U.S.A.
carburetors and lead gas
fella could get some where
in them old cars
if something broke
he had the tools
to fix it himself
kids these days, hell,
can’t change a damn
tire
going to finish replacing
this valve
then going home
wife will have dinner
i’ll have a six pack
watch the game
forget about
foreign cars
for an hour
or two
maybe tomorrow will be better
right back at the garage
in the morning
but i gotta lady bringing in
an F 150
old one
needs lots of work
giving it to her
grandson
to drive to college
wants it reliable
wants it safe
i’ll get out my old tools
some of them my old man
gave me
i know every inch of that Ford engine
i could strip it with my eyes closed
i’ll take good care of that truck
might even have a beer or two
turn up the radio
With fluid grace the yarn slips through my fingers, looping and twisting to form something that will bring warmth and comfort.
Your face fills my mind.
I remember your measured words as you attempted to train my young, impatient hands with yarn, and fabric, and needle and thread.
I chose a pattern far too complex for my first time sitting at the sewing machine.
You cautioned against it, but allowed it all the same.
You believed in letting kids learn from their skinned knees and elbows if they were too stubborn to listen.
I never mastered the machine but the yarn now bends to my will-becoming a work of art from so many loose strings.
You quietly slipped from this world not long ago on a nondescript, spring Tuesday.
It seems an unfitting end for such a powerhouse of a woman.
I could not come to pay my respects-this virus banning such a gathering- so I will pay a different offering.
Every stitch of every row that comforts another will be in tribute to the woman who once tried to train my young, impatient hands.
My aunt
Thinks the pictures are a hoax
Thinks a display of awareness
Was meant to trick us
What is this fight worth to me?
What
will it change
will it
What
will
it
change
will
it what
will it change
Will it
What will it change
Will it change
Will it change
I need a poetry month
My heart hurts for the world
our country
our communities
families
I need to be active, helpful
to contribute constructively
to healthy growth and compassionate change
The illusion of safety has vanished
the bubble of falsely perceived equality for all has burst
the wizard behind the curtain in MIA
What can I a priviledged middle-aged white woman in rural eastern Kentucky do
to promote healing and change?
I can love
I can speak
I can support
I can vote
I can write poetry.
