Seven Sunflowers
The summer I planted seven sunflowers
They were left in a crooked row
In my backyard, like a fence overseeing
The differences between the sidewalk and dirt.
It rained a great deal in June,
And three sunflowers were broken by the storms
Their toddling stalks split apart before even
Reaching my knees.
I promised myself I could do more,
Tie their stretching bodies to posts
And secure their waists with binding wire,
Call it valiance and continue to survey.
But the sky opened again in July,
and the August hail took the fifth
Leaving two flowers in contest, reaching
Side by side, overseers in a fading land
It wasn't until September,
When those two flowers extended overhead
They started unfolding,
Their heads blinking open after a blinding summer;
The first sunflower to bloom
Lived for one day before the neighborhood
Children smashed the stem and left
The head scattered on the sidewalk
One sunflower, the strongest
Who had made it since late May,
Stood tall and alone, one tower overseeing
A killing field and thoroughfare.
The last sunflower died on the same day
The FBI raided the houses of war protesters
Searching for totems akin to terrorism
But their guns were drawn at the wrong neighbors
It was the third day of autumn,
And I stepped out in my backyard
Only to find the strongest of them all
Cut down at the knees, beheaded.
Untitled Poem About People at Work #3 – The Christian Girl
The Christian girl sells beer to strangers,
In short red shorts out in the suburbs.
Every day when she gets off work
She leaves her fiance at the threshold
And moves what she can to make ends meet.
It's this economy, it's booming,
and everyone is selling high
Passing around blame like it's a marketable
Investment wearing those short red shorts.
And everyone knows it's a party
Where the permission flows like brandy
And the jukebox winks at suggestions
All the while the Christian girl laughs along
Because she knows what's caught up in this fun.
They tithe with wrinkled dollar bills
But mistake the collection plate,
Tipping her over with every new score
Intoxicated more from the promise than the drink
That came from those short red shorts.
As the veins fill with ferment
The vision becomes ravenous, unsustainable and
Desire becomes possession
And they think they call this feeling passion.
But passes don't stick to an object in motion.
So as time runs out on the night
The beer she's sold is returned when
Someone vomits in the bathroom, and
Someone calls their wife to come end the fun
and the Christian girl leaves in the company car
Disregarding those short red shorts as a beaming halo.
10.17.2010
6.04.2010
The Sun Only Shines on the West Side of Town
From the upcoming Skull and Poems Press release CONFRONTATIONS.
If he coughs and sputters enough,
He can almost feel what it is like –
The mechanical grinding of sparks and carburetors
and how they hiss at him and tell him
He’s nothing but an enabler.
That he pushes too hard and won’t take no for an answer,
That the parking lot behind the porn shop
Is not the place he’s thought he’d be
All those years ago when he was making plans.
And if he coughs and sputters enough,
He’ll slow his pace down, try to catch his breath,
But he’ll be the only one on that sidewalk
With his lungs open in anticipation
as the windstreams of downtown traffic swell the air –
As each gasp fills his chest with stagnation,
As each knee slips closer to the cement and
He coughs and sputters what sounds like a prayer
To the sun making its way through the skyscrapers.
Then at the time when his penance has been paid
He wears his froth like a beard, and emaciated –
A band of angels ferries his body across the river
where he waits in a stupor,
Spitting at the clock, the fresh saliva on his cheeks refracting a prism
And for a few minutes his life is an oiled canvas
and he’s swimming in it
But when God comes to punch his timecard and
He clears out his desk, he coughs and he sputters again
Because the shadows are lengthening in the west
And, friend, your home is out east.
If he coughs and sputters enough,
He can almost feel what it is like –
The mechanical grinding of sparks and carburetors
and how they hiss at him and tell him
He’s nothing but an enabler.
That he pushes too hard and won’t take no for an answer,
That the parking lot behind the porn shop
Is not the place he’s thought he’d be
All those years ago when he was making plans.
And if he coughs and sputters enough,
He’ll slow his pace down, try to catch his breath,
But he’ll be the only one on that sidewalk
With his lungs open in anticipation
as the windstreams of downtown traffic swell the air –
As each gasp fills his chest with stagnation,
As each knee slips closer to the cement and
He coughs and sputters what sounds like a prayer
To the sun making its way through the skyscrapers.
Then at the time when his penance has been paid
He wears his froth like a beard, and emaciated –
A band of angels ferries his body across the river
where he waits in a stupor,
Spitting at the clock, the fresh saliva on his cheeks refracting a prism
And for a few minutes his life is an oiled canvas
and he’s swimming in it
But when God comes to punch his timecard and
He clears out his desk, he coughs and he sputters again
Because the shadows are lengthening in the west
And, friend, your home is out east.
Skull and Poems, Activate!
Hey hey hey!
I just bought the domain www.skullandpoems.com
And we have a book coming out on July 13th, and it's called Confrontations.
And now I have a SP Blog as well! How awesome! How dandy!
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