The Land From Where I Came

The sun set. The crickets started wailed,
out on the lawn, beneath the pail.
As the cars silence, stop going by
as the moon, its craters, starts getting high.

Where the South is heavy on the tongue
where the laundry is rightfully wrung--
peace of the yard we fight to keep--
Where the willow goes entranced to weep.

This is the land that has born I.
Made from the grand blue Southern sky--
the red Georgia clay of river bands
from the gleaming white Savannah sands.

Where the woods they keep secrets still
of simple times and cotton mills.
Where a boy can grow--  be a grown man--
And night settles deep upon the land.

Ain't got no need for fancy lights--
buildings reaching those godly heights.
We have the morals, the family, the olden times--
air to breathe and ol' friendly rhymes.

Here the patriotic U.S. is still alive,
thriving like a yellow jacket hive.
Where the citizen still has his rights --
and the new must adjust thier sights.

On this land I place my name
with all the others of the same.
And on this grass I will lay my head
on this land I can keep my bed.

Locust

Out one day into the heat,

shuffling and strolling my wet feet--

I come upon; oh! what do we have here?

A sickly locust fluttering, how so queer!

Its wings are tattered, broken and thin

from its throat it babbles a ghastly hymn

and it can fly! No, no more, no more,

this creature has been downed upon the floor.

I prod with my toe the misshapen form

to see if its body is still good and warm.

It flips and flutters out further the street--

out where the morning birds like to eat.

And it stills again, there, out there

and from its eye it loses its flair--

to await death from its inside gut

where fear and grief refuse to hunt.

It is here that I wonder, alone,

the locust is but months out of home

and taking life's chilling final hug.

Who now is wiser? Is it me or the bug?

To Lose

I'm picking the paint off the wall--
One piece, two piece now four,
Coutning the seconds till what?
What if? No. There's nothing there.
More flakes and more shakes,
find a picture I don't see anymore...
In a way it's fine, if fine is what's okay.
I confuse red paint for blood now,
as my finger nails come off...
And I lose my fingers in the gore.
How are? No. There's nothing there.
Biting the paint off the wall.
Seven hours now or has it been
good 'ol twenty-four?
What time? No. There's nothing there
I loose my pace; my teeth are pulling out
I realize how I've come undone
With nothing to pick, with nothing to chew
and wonder? No. There's nothing left to lose.

Date

The doorbell rang and he opened the door. She came in. She was miss Baker from 1012 Longfield drive which was situated across town from his large but modest living quarters. She favored soft music weaving in and out through candle lights, soft rose petals against her skin, the smell of expensive cologne and the taste of the expensive food that came on big plates and little clusters. Tonight miss Baker wore a red dress, highlighting her tan skin and bright smile. She took in her date, looking him up then changing it up and looking him down. He was Mr. Stephens: black hair, black eyes, hard skin with a white dress shirt atop khaki pants shiny black shoes sticking out from their leg helms. He was tall to her but average when compared to most men. Not too short, not too tall. A perfect balance of somewhere in the middle. In high school he had been the boy the new freshman girls coming in each year wept over. After that he took himself and devoted himself to the study of all things of which did not interest miss Baker.

Mr. Stephens looked down into the pale green eyes of miss Baker, smiling. His grin large and simple. She found it beautiful in that. He offered her a big rough hand. She obliged. He led her down a hallway, past a closed door, over a carpeted floor and into a dining room which, of course, had the music and candle light that miss Baker and every woman swoons over. He led her more. Pulled a chair out for her. She sat. In order to do so, she twisted around him and took in a deep breath of his cologne. Her heartbeats fluttered like the tinny wings of a hummingbird. He smiled again at her and she felt her smile come to. He nodded and asked her if she didn't mind waiting for a minute, the chicken had to sit for another moment or so in the oven. She said no. He pulled a chair out for himself directly across from her and they talked about high school and what they're doing now in life and how they plan to spend the future. Miss Baker did not say this, just spread it out like a blanket across her whole mind in a wish, she thought she might be interested in having him somewhere in the future. Perhaps wedding to her on a Mexican beach? Or pushing her down onto some white sheets with the all famous candle light and soft (Mexican) music? She did not know the details. Her mind was too drunk from him to figure it all out. (Get him, run away, marry him) She twittered her hands to compensate for the stillness of her thoughts.

From somewhere in the quite darkness of the house a single ting! sounded, signaling what must have been the completion of the chicken. Mr. Stephens excused himself and disappeared into the same warm darkness the ting! emerged from.

Miss Baker looked in then candle light at the room she was in. The floors were hardwood and very clean. The walls were a coffee brown and very clean. Everything in this room was in fact very clean. Almost as if he had a woman in his life. Perhaps a maid or a sister who came and visited on the week ends. But in the back of her (get him, run away, marry him) mind she felt a jealous tingle come up her spine. What if he had TWO dates? What if he had two women he made love him? What if tonight was her night and tomorrow was said other woman's? What if she, miss Baker, had him the second night! What if last night he had said other woman sitting in this same chair? She didn't want to be second if she had to share! If she had to share she must be first, always first, because she-- Mr. Stephens came back wearing his lovely smile. In his large hands carried and silver plate with a silver top which had condensation building colonies on it. He sat the sparkling plate between them and then disappeared back into the inner reaches of his home. Coming back a few seconds with two plates, white as bone with a gold circle tracing the circumference of the dish. For the first time of walking in the house, miss Baker realized her stomach was eating itself. It rumbled like a volcano. Mr. Stephens was busy carving the chicken when the rumbling first commentated. With a large knife in had he smiled again at her and asked her if she was hungry? She blushed a bit and nodded, she very much was. He took a good size portion of the bird and placed it on one of the fine plates and set it in front of miss Baker. The skin was bronze and steamed. Miss Baker was ravenous tempted with the idea of just picking it up and tearing into it but she reminded herself that (get him, run away, marry him) that she had a good looking man to impress. Refraining from the barbaric idea, she picked up a silver knife, a silver fork, and as Mr. Stephens sat down in front of her, she began eating.


Miss Baker was busting at her seams now. She felt fat and that embarrassed her. And it made her mad that she couldn't tell what her date was thinking through his black happy eyes. She wagered that he thought she were a pig. But she was hungry. And she ate half the poultry. But she was starving.

But he had less than she had. She decided that if he thought of her as some fat animal she would just deal with it and leave. The bird had been too tantalizing and she too hungry to have nay regrets. Her conscious told her (get him, run away, marry him) that she was being ridiculous. He started to clear the table. Took the plates into the warm darkness then reappeared and took the silver platter. Mrs. Barker excused herself when he came back to sit down, then realized she didn't know where anything in this house was and asked her date for directions to the bathroom. He stood up and led her back over the carpeted floor and to the closed door she met before. Inside was a large-ish room with African masks on the walls and what looked like pieces of pottery on a table under two large lights. A laptop computer also sat on the table. At the back of this room was another door and he opened this one too. Inside was a bathroom. She thanked him and darted inside smelling (get him, run away, marry him) cologne again.

She found the light and the bathroom glowed under the florescent. White. Everything here was white. She found the mirror on the wall and smiled in it. Chicken skin was in her teeth, a big chunk between her front two. She picked it out along with the others. Begging to God that he hadn't seen the skin in her teeth. When she finished she flushed the toilet, just because she didn't want him to know what she did. And walked into the pottery room. She examined more closely the pieces on the table. Old pottery, it seemed. Archeology was his trade! She remembered in a flashed and suddenly it didn't seem so boring. It seemed (get him, run away, marry him) attractive. It seemed hot! Adventurous! It seemed like running away from boulders and swinging over quicksand with a whip. (Get him, run away, marry him, get him, run away, marry him, get him, run away, marry him) She could feel her face burning now, physically burning. She took this as her sign to leave, left the room and quietly closed the door back.

When miss Baker returned to the kitchen Mr. Stephens wasn't there. To the left was another door that had been shut earlier but now stood open. She went though it to a high ceiling living room. Here there was a leather rocking chair and a long couch with Mr. Stephens sleeping on it. Had she really taken that long? Miss Baker pushed her lips together and then smiled. (Get him, run away, marry him) She crossed the room. (Get him, run away, marry him) Sat down beside him and curled up with her head on his chest listening to the steady bump-bump-bump of his heart. Even they sounded big and heavy. He stirred and looked down at her pale eyes and smiled, warm and simply. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his chest, sighing as she did so. He had aged so well. From his pocket her drew two gold rings. Faded in age. What had once been brilliant, it was now dull. But what age could not do was dull the couple. Miss Baker threw off the charade like a night gown. “Mrs. Stephens” she whispered, a sort of code word between the two. Her skin did not fit as well as it once had, his hair had grays spun in it like thread yet together they were young. Together they were immortal.

(Get him, run away, marry him)

Shoelaces and Shadows

Some days I take my shoes off
so my toes can breathe.
And I cast a shadow across the yard,
just to know I'm here.
And me and he, we settle down,
we bend our knees in the grass.
And me and he, I watch him,
he has no eyes-- he dosen't see.

I pretend I'm on an island
many, many years away.
On this island there are roads
quite a few of which go nowhere at all.
I settle down again, just me,
I bend my knees so they point up.
And me and he, I sit there,
he has no imagination to believe.

As the sun sets, it dies in flame.
Somehow I lost the way I came.
The chorus of night begins its wail
I find each cricket by his tale.
And me and he, we're in the grass,
and me and he, I listen,
he has no ears at all.

My shadow, what a bore he can be.
When it is just me and he.
I lace my shoes, and cross the lawn,
to figure which way here I had gone.

II

I have wasted myself, I suppose,
because of all the ways my mind goes
and that it only holds what's important to me.
And I know its sick, that's no way to be,
when there's math and numbers and hypotheses.
But I have filled monsters in the seas
and tales and myths in my fortification
I cannot let go of my imagination.

I pity you, someday, other time,
I pity my greasy green grime--
I pity you because “you”
is in rhythm with “through.”
You are through with your imagination
and fed yourself digits, time and limitation.
You go to bed fair and up held,
I'll go only if all my dreams have failed.

III

Give me a day that is a bore and she will strike it down.

And I love her more than I can say,
and she knows I tell her everyday:
that she is the prettiest,
that she is the funniest
and she's just a little bit-- strange.

And when she's mad she calls me “Brooks”
and when she's sad
she just says “bye.”
But I love her all, the all, the same
even when she plays the “I'm right, you're not” game.
Even when she feels a bit derange.

When she's glad my name is “Babe”
and she holds my hand.
When's she crazy
she'll try a new band.
But always comes back to the same, the same--
even though I can't remember their name...
She makes me listen anyway.

Cerca

Even the rusted window will close
and every songbird will hold his tongue.
Remember and you will not forget
the way the door shakes its frame
or how a life will perish in flame--
how everything here is fair game.
Remember this and you will not forget
mountains crumble and time slips.
And babies are born and they grow old--
the fire in the hearth will always go cold.
And the laughter of the couple next door down,
they have moved far out of town.
Where laughter was-- none now.
The barking dog sent to the pound.
Silence has closed-- the window see,
the boy has scrapped his scrany knee.
And his mom takes stranger men to late shows
remember this and you will not forget:
even the rusted window will close.

I am not Courage

They call it courage,
when you're buddy's down
and all that's stopping death
is a thirty magazine.
They call it courage.
They give you a medal.
For saving your skin.
Killing the kid who's
just doing 'cause his daddy said.
They call it courage.
And give you a medal.
For doing all that was going
through your head.
Because that other boy is dead.
Is it courage?
When you couldn't save your friend?
I was given a medal.
That is just wasted lead.
I killed when I was scared.
And they call that courage.
When the other boy is dead.
What from his eyes?
Or from thiers?
He had the guts to come at me.

They call me courage,
twenty-five years from then.
With all the gun powder
rubbed into the lines of my hand.
I am not courage.
I am a coward.
I shot a man.

Boat Ride

We stopped somewhere
between Near, somewhere
somewhere close to Here--
and the clouds-- whiten
whereas now the sky
breaks free-- lifts its face;
Sun stretches its rays.
Where rain ought to be
none. To the side is.
Stick our fingers in--
needles to our skin.
There's no ryhme for this--
write it down line by
line, word by word, sight
by sight. The side rain
makes my hand tingle--
that feels swell, really.
it must be this place
between Near, somewhere
somewhere close to Here--
what else could it be?

The Hidden

And the floor boards creak
I heard the rafters weep.
An old crypt house groan--
house where the ghosts call home.

It felt queer to sleep
where translucent feet sleek--
and aged voices speak
twist through the dust to ears.

Where warmth was shivers thrive,
dripping -plop- down my spine.
Here is the dead toes,
of late Miss Mary Jones.

Skeletons now and
nothing more. Toenails still
in the scratched floorboard.
Where here the murder is.

Souls lost right between
somewhere hot; somewhere clean.
Casting no shadow--
except over thier own.

Even ghost don't know--
the hidden do no good.
Makes one wonder where
the living come to play.