Category: Poetry

Written for an imaginary town in which I’d planned to set stories. If only I could fill my bank account with plans.

I
The executioner’s walking,
Scratching the back of his hand
Where the mayor spit on it last week.
The wind sends the whisper
Of his blade on stone
To every house and dilapidated trailer,
All watching the evening news.

II
Who all remembers the night
When a few Evergreen trailers
Were inhaled by the sky?
Waiting to see
Who was dead,
We all drank coffee
With cheap bourbon

III
I saw Jamie yesterday
at the drugstore,
wearing a bell-strewn Christmas sweater,
even though it’s April.
She was buying
fungal creams and tampons,
(poor girl)
her hands shaking a little.
(you know she’s the widow
of that guy who killed all those people?)
She looked like she was having down times,
but then who has good days anymore?

IV
The pain in the rain
Falls mainly
On our faces.

V
It was close.
Devil was comin with them big arches
All golden-like.
Plans were drawn, demographics
(ha!)
Were sketched, but it was some sort of
Competition between towns,
And I guess we ain’t so competetive.
Someone had wanted it,
But who? Not us;
Keep your Internet and hybrid cars
In your Art Deco cities, and leave us alone
To polish our stones.

VI
The Church burned down
To the ground today.
I worry It kept away
The real demons.
Closed three years,
I still found there
A mysterious power
In Its unlit candles
And discolored stained glass,
Its coercive crucifix,
Christ crying,
For the worst of us,
For all of us.