Gas for the multitudes

Gas for the multitudes
We were all geared up for this gig,
don’t get me wrong, it’s true:
loyalty, guts, & Diner’s Club cards
the Boss demanded of his crew

to cover, you know, expenses for the road:
sinkers, felt-tipped pens, voltage meters,
cottonseed oil, Argo starch, bicycle chains
rabbit-skin glue, & cans of skeeter

spray (mustn’t forget the skeeter spray)
all grist, you might say, for the millstone
blocks of time dragging behind, unseen
but not forgotten, like the ancient bones

un-ignorable, that’s what they are, the nut
of it, the core, the unspeakable magma of it
that held us back, heavier than air
like some gas bag igniting

the inflammatory end to all our schemes
where Courthouse Road meets the beach.

Do we know when this will reach the end?

notes on the silence

notes on the silence
who among us will denounce the silence
call us all to see it for what it is
break it in order to admit hot-doggedly
what is obvious to all who ask

what minister of true will do us a fervor
& preach to us—no bullshit—us children asleep

will the prophet patiently hold his breath
or hers no longer
& dance real words
under glitter-balls twisting
@ the club valdosta

oh we know the harrowing must be done
the words are eager to be eaten
for to replace old silent habits

the first among them being
your bitter suckling of fear
as if it were your lover’s thumb
the locus where you only imagine
a consoling deliverance to valdosta

you say you want to
stand on a box & cry
for help if nothing else

me, I say lots of good that will do
the true is coming anyway
so you better know now
how the silence must be broken


hidden garden

Photograph by Diana Young

not all gardens
are for cultivators
some hide behind
tall iron gates
high wall faced
rough cut slabs
marbre rose de canigò
dressed limestone
under-and-over growth
reserved for nobody
no surprise when they
stumble home