Sunrise
by the lake
a wake of vultures
warming to the day
<span;>Friday morning freshman year
<span;>Uneventful, biding time before winter break
<span;>Just six hours to go until two weeks off from this hellscape
<span;>Friday morning PE class
<span;>Dodging balls, chasing ass
<span;>Friday noon, large slice of cheese pizza
<span;>Lunch with Maddie and a few Chinese kids
<span;>Afternoon, religion class
<span;>Friday morning couldn’t last
<span;>Gift exchange but I forgot
<span;>I freak out, I freak out a lot
<span;>Running down to try and solve this
<span;>I get pulled in to the counselors office
<span;>Nose in book, radio playing
<span;>Ears tune in to what they’re saying
<span;>Lone gunman, twenty kids dead
<span;>It goes without saying that a point blank shot into the head of a six year old equals a closed casket funeral
<span;>But sometimes I wish they’d give these kids the Emmett Till treatment
<span;>Leave that shit open so those fuckers can see what they’ve done
<span;>Friday evening, Christmas breaks
<span;>Like hearts missing pieces that can’t be replaced
left to their own devises
will whisper sweet nothings
into your ear…convbince you right
is wrong and up is down;
since they have to work ALL the time
and are highly
underpaid,
a little tom-foolery
seems to be their just compensation
Especially useful
in maters of the heart,
they are masters of rationalization
and usually advise us
to let modesty fly out the window
Not so long ago
they were highly sought after
consultants,
had a place at the table
and were even in the movies.
Alas, there is no longer room for them
in our data center world
and robots lack the imagination.
Angels are being laid off
by the millions…the billions actually
a tree turned in
to
time,
a
blue
wing
like
a distorted shadow
descending to-
wards a moment of danger
bent gently
like the opening fronds of a fern.
The window that
is wonder
leads to the
green
veil nobody sees,
the
final kneading.
~ An erasure of page 9 in Margaret Atdwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale
Isn’t it a shame?
Our parents said of the river,
The one from that old legend
The river sprung from a lady’s tears
Our parents said of the river
It is special to our town
The river sprung from a lady’s tears
When she lost her children
It is special to our town
Provides clean water, fresh fish
When she lost her children
And shed unending tears of grief
Provides clean water, fresh fish—
Then one day Papa came home early
And shed unending tears of grief
Worried for our future
Then one day Papa came home early
Nets almost empty, boots dry
Worried for our future
When the river shrank another inch
Nets almost empty, boots dry
Papa shouted at it in frustration
When the river shrank another inch
And we went to bed hungry
Papa shouted at it in frustration
Days passed with no catch
And we went to bed hungry
While Mama cried and cried
Days passed with no catch
The town shrank with the river’s borders
While Mama cried and cried
In despair for her children
The town shrank with the river’s borders
The tears the lady wept
In despair for her children
Ceasing their flow
The tears the lady wept
Tears seemingly unending
Ceasing their flow.
I think I know the reason
Tears seemingly unending,
But the river’s drying up.
I think I know the reason:
The lady must have found her children
But the river’s drying up,
The one from that old legend.
The lady must have found her children.
Isn’t it a shame?
E will pass with a D,
Wary of rattle snakes and tarantulas I walk around
the remains of the abandoned falling-down house
faded and gray, at the edge
of the cotton field.
Overgrown with weeds
I peer inside, fearful
traces of ancestral memories
will creep out and overwhelm.
Dry grass from the drought is crushed by each step
plastic bags, trash from a distant highway
blown up against the broken back door
and the hammock I brought on a visit
years ago is rusted and torn
No one will sit in it
Mom had said, speaking from a past self
that would never relax.
We are masterful
at filling in calendar squares,
longing for the month-away party,
buying the perfect gift,
cheering on the underdog home team,
watching the hours till mystery’s
next episode is streamed,
salivating for favorite author’s
upcoming publication date
but are all too willing
to risk walking past
an unbidden dance step
while crossing the street,
ignoring a lone daisy
amid the brambles,
brushing off wisdom from
the least-expected lips
and missing a fall-from-the-sky
curl up with grandsons
to read the collected works
of Curious George.
Water as brown as
Willy Wonka’s chocolate
river, only not
nearly as sweet. Hope we don’t
tip, pull an Augustus Gloop.
