2013 First Half Poetry Collection

8/22/2019 2013 First Half Poetry Collection

1/13

Mad (I)

Mad (I)

as a treein winter,

Mad (I)as the grey limbs

that reach across

to wade inthe Tallulah

to wade inthe bitter,

bitter

as a paper cut.

Mad (I)

the grey

tree that waits,waits

for the wind

to shout me closer.


2/13

Tool & Dye Maker

Like most of us

I never knew what my daddid

What hedid (when I was around)

was lethargy and tv

and I knew he had a title

and it involved CnC machines.

But I knew the hands;

Atacama

they were.

They were

still the machine, warm

warm and the balmy beatingand quivering.

I knew themetal splinters that

were not wood splinters

but straight razors

and cut likehis shame.

I knew theloudness of his nerves

and how it made me

want my hands to be

soft


3/13

First Time in Atlanta

Atlanta

was night.

The first night I saw

When you're young

the night glances

(the candles of flies)

only in June

But Atlanta was night

true night I thought

the tunnels Downtown past Williams St

the flashes

like seeing my sister peek throughthe door while my mom reads

Exit 246was true night

the homeless drummers

dotted in our walk;my dad's stern twain

The roadsragged as Black Rock

This was night to me

The burning top

of the BOA

The I-85 exit

lost

in the concrete slabs


4/13

A tire

threadbare,

suckles the cascadeof water, warm

as a mother's chest,

while

loitering

in the backyard.


5/13

How to Have Fun in South Mount Airy

Starter fluid

is

so muchfun

when mixedwith

water

and the hexane

is diluted.

...

This is how you live

we,

longwood pines,the roots of the pine,

that rip the soil up

into ragsand lick the pores

of water up in August.


6/13

When I Saw D-- in the Paper

We,brothers of these trees,

swingers of birches, yielding ourselvesto limbs that became swords and lances

and we'd hit each other and my forehead

would start bleeding and we'd fall out ofcharacter.

We, the crowd on the gravel groundthat sucked our throats of all heat, beating

up C----, with me grabbing him and you

punching him, and him laying down cryingand we not even getting yellow going all the

way to orange and our parents being called.

These memories are puddles to me now,like the ones that dropped

off you after practice

when your dad was always lateand forgetful and fret to pick you up.


7/13

There was once a man named C---

who was so lazy he wouldn't grab his tea;

he lived with mother,

and never had another,and when she died he became lonely.


8/13

a woodchip

stuck underneath

my big toenail.

Still, to me

despite

despite

meeting out

at the Thai place

and reconciling


9/13

Sherman is a Suburb

Do we let

the traces of Beverly Hall and APS and Pearson etc etcferment into wine

or do we do what's rightand burn Atlanta

burn Atlanta again and take down

Mechanicsville, Reynoldstown,

what's left standing of them, proud

as unkempt trees?

And we should scavenge the Coca-Cola sign

Downtown and place next to God's children

in Banks Crossing above the Tanger Outlet;

all the smart children from Cabbagetown and Hapeville

can go to North Forsyth Central before they beatup

and are sent

outand put back

and given a chance to fall down on their swords, ashamed.

Atlanta can be burned, except Atlantic Station-always save Atlantic Station and IKEA-

and we'll let the vines

and rainrip Peachtree apart.


10/13

There were always jobs at the mill

until there weren't.

All down 365 and 115 and 17.

On exit New Holland's

smokestacks,gorgons, overweight and out of breath,

and as a kid they hovered

the car windows as my 4'' self looked upon our way to Lakeshore Mall.

They're all goneMiliken,Clarkesville Mill, Habersham Mill.

This is not an ode. I don't miss them.

Mills were 12 hour shifts,

second and third shifts 7PM-7AM.

No one wanted to get spanked by

calloused hands, hardened by

lifting spools.

You'd fall asleep in the shower

as you try to clean and clean

and clean and clean the cotton the confettithat stuck on you

like the pine needles

marooned your shorts when you'd playRough Riders in the woods.

Trying to play baseball by yourself,discovering the home run you could hit

in your mind by hitting the ball over the house,

while mom dad slept and slept and listened to Maury;

the rain gnaws the paint off

of the bungalow houses

on Jesse Jewel in New Holland.


11/13

Cavalier,

the steeple seeps

concealed in shadow,

trailingat the heels of

Eastern Pines,

blurring on

985.


12/13

To Curse

I learned

those wordswhen I was 5.

I didn't know theywere hatchets; I just knew

they were hidden

in the top shelf of the closetwhere our Christmas presents

would be.

I knew I couldn't

take it to school,

though sometimes I

might sneak it in my pocketand show my friends

during lunch and recess

and I remember B---being a bastard

because I showed him one

about our teacher Mr. Nand he galloped over to show him.


13/13

INCOMPLETE

Burn these woods,

this green earth I gaveyou, Lyre

I gave you

like I gave your fatherand like your father

like your father

you could never sweep your handsacross the leaves and stay

the way I wanted

As skinny

as Winter, this I remember

you last, as skinny as

February,and jittery marks,

dark as violet, that freckled

your face that I rememberwas as beautiful as your mother's

and mine.

Documents

2013 First Half Poetry Collection