Appalachian Flowers
when industry blossomed
the smoke billowed
from every smokestack.
Workers with black hands
carried their hearts in steel
pails; a half eaten bologna
sandwich cut thick, banana
peel for the compost
and an empty moon pie
wrapper graced the inside.
they come home to their wives
who yell at them to wipe
their boots at the door, kiss
them on the cheek and warn
against touching anything.
warm smells and piping coffee
await their non-discerning
palates as they pray
to God above to bless the meal,
just to wash up, eat, go to bed
early to do it again
the next day, until words are read
about the good man with lungs
full of soot
laid to rest with the stacks
of rubble that used to prosper
on the backs of men,
like the Kentucky homestead
at dusk when the wind rakes the leaves
with such fervency you’d swear
someone used to live here.
Bob Ross Paints His Eden
happy little trees surround
nakedness, so Bob draws
knowledge with colors that spread through the garden
an orange fire of knowing, until the people start wearing
clothes. hats grace the heads of everyone, lined like store
mannequins in dress shop windows. purple veils, pink brims,
the garden turns into shopping
malls and sky scrapers, brush
strokes turn violet fields into a gravel road painted just so
which lends itself to country drives. skinny jeans painted blue-
black, hide tired saggy bodies
until no one looks like anyone else.
the summers are drenched with colors of broken
leaves, until chips of paint flecks the canvas and the imperfections are revealed,
the fruit taken, the body discovered, the truth
like flies buzz around the heads of the many, while Bob explains god the way he paints,
how anyone can do what he does,
maybe even better.
Given
she had red hair
red as the face
of fire, knife, glinting
in the dancing flames
my hood pulled down
tight so they couldn’t see
the terror reflected in my eyes
but I held up my hand
questions poised in my lips
her milky skin danced against
flames as high as the sun
as I bought time like lottery
tickets, sacrificing my own
sex rendered body
for that of the untouched
until there was no more time
for sale weeping as both
our bodies triumphed in
the patiently waiting flames
our throats smiling
from ear to ear
The Things I Taught You
when I read about the poet
who seemingly lost everything
including her use as a mother,
returned to poetry as solace
to repair what had been broken
like a vase ruined by a small child,
i could relate, being the father
in the Cat Steven’s song
Cat’s In The Cradle,
reflecting on what I had taught you that you seemingly already knew,
knowing everything about hope and love and the way not to conduct a meaningless life
where your children would
eventually try to leave, like birds that fly
south and never return, because home is a theory of where people think you should be
not where you are and flying there admits defeat, and no one wants that. no father wants that
for his own, still, when something
breaks, you can hear it for miles,
ringing in your ears like love.
Straight razor
it is the day to take down
the lights, the cheerful
blow-ups and my small
ever-growing Santa village.
the wind cuts like a straight
razor, so close you can feel
how smooth, terror. the leaves
rot underneath
the naked maple, loose limbs
litter the yard at the rate of one
every three weeks, weakened
by weather eroding the root base.
I gather them to burn for campfire
kindling, wondering if it feels
like it’s turning invisible, the way i’ve often felt
heat rising in my throat
till there’s nothing left
of me but an empty hole,
unable to speak, the once
song lodged in my throat.
my life singed away from
every picture.
What We Discover About Beauty
He stole your beauty
hid it under his coat
only brings it out
at night
so you can look
at it and remember
how it was when
your skin glistened
like the moon through
your bedroom window
and you remembered
what it was like to love
a boy you used to know
and remember how he let
you wear it whenever
you wanted