Part 1
The Gun
Overlook Kentucky
Dayton, Ohio, 1984
Sie reinigen sich mit Feuer.
āThey cleanse themselves with fire.ā
Sometimes, it turns up ta Mama in polyester,
Those invisibles then or otherwise who kin
read her face, mine. Him, callinā fer Yvonne.
Hey Yvonne! The memoree of some stranger
his shoulderās shadow plunges inta our place:
thunk, thunk. Run! Motherās vowels pierce haze.
Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric,
black ball cap, the odor of Bud Light, fills the door
she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is
the knock leads inta porch, cement on bare feet,
only a stuffed Bambi knows lips open in prayer
ta a vengeful gawd while another immaculate sun spills
towards another dawn. Somehow, this small pulse
will tense up quite at any doctor too too close ta throat,
toes, all me then blurree, before he gives me paired spectacles.
Whut will linger on, or be charred like barbecue,
tastes I still savor? Wracked on coals, memorees remind us
of shame anā need. Seen, unseen, even gloree can sting.
Journal Entry #1
The Bastard
He knows ābout his-stor-ee. Say every Thing came outta wahtuh. Laugh, an ā¦ Scales? Some maybe. Donāt know ā¦ ask to strip, show minners low. Decide by those learned men ā¦ I tolā ābout Greeks and glassee sea. Home to Gospel, not desert straws. Told in Pairee. Home was where we held hands, wishinā, āneath an ole tree. That rivuh, pronginā hoary roots, cinched like a priestās hands, those claws. We lived in wahtuh with two heads. Gawds, jealous of it, cut every-One inta two, maybe ta breed harsh, air becomes salt in the mouthe, the ache fer sun. Completeānah. We jusā long.
Why I Wasnāt Supposed to Be Born
Encephalitis it whuz, he caught at Christmas.
They say only miracle can save.
Heāll be a vegetable, or dead,
not the best Christmas surprise.
On a loveseat, Maw braids sisās hair inta coils,
a stern gawd, she will glare
as I square, swing, nudge drawers
too loud. I will get born, earn that look,
from the eyes blue as lamp-shade.
They will brighten everything,
I wanna be rough like a beard,
ta hurt mine enemy the way
Paw does, cleave tinsel and IVās the same
as he did on Christmas Day.
This terrible need to know, be known.
Journal Entry #2
Judge
ā¦ Objective, eye the women eve-va-re wear showing cinched waist. Bared, yessir! Made to milk, as somebody say. Should I docile, open my shirt, counter, whut Gawd needs dugs? Good enough joke. Do ya think true who made such a fuss, made us ta bear, breed out of a squall. Pity-full, full of soul, though, we needs no curve, no linen. Whut then, who, do angels do?
Burn
Just sneak. Smoke with me. Turn upward, imagine billions of star
system, galaxies minute as violet flickerinā at dawn or sunrise.
Beneath us? Fumes from the tip arches there, beyond even this.
Dangerous as fire is, but who can settle when worlds come a
knockinā?
Solid as a door, ya stretch, glimpse long, eye-full āa solar wind,
The heft of it whispers like a minsterās child. Bad is flesh! Badā!
Yer reply? Ya puff as that cigarette heats against two splayed fingers,
measures yer gawddamn mistakes, beyond countinā.
A hair pulls fire from the ash. Ya aināt no dandy-man ta claim ta
know the pure from the stained. Not yer strength, girl.
Breathe, all ya know is this small thing. Lighters, if yer brazen,
will hurt some lips even if ya burn nothinā but the cleanest
kerosene.
Journal Entry #3
Whut
do ya believe?
Green-blue-gold-flickey iris flayed away ātil mere holy eye flinches whole.
Violet, water unknown ā¦ oh, ripples like twin moles on showder, hidden lights,
fairy-lights in the eye heal wrinkles, scars, life-times, easy as coral, pink nail-tips on a kettle,
tea, even stains wash sometime. Or they donāt.
New Yearās
Back from School
Exhale if...