2nd State (Amended)

The marching band has fallen;
spinning batons bounce between the drums.
A cawing breaks the silence:
“Let’s clean this up ‘fore Jesus comes”.
Flags slap hot air in summer,
ice cream melts on the thick black road slag.
Rucksacks packed with cellophane,
piled, broken in gridiron tag.
Riddled, Ritalin rejects
stare doe-eyed at the great balding sun;
mouths gaunt around half-formed wit,
future stolen ‘fore barrel spun.
Mop the squeaking floor bone dry.
Bleachers stacked hide covered, rolling eyes.
Sleep well in Punxatawney, Phil,
whose galleried shots we despise.



As the sun sweats the sky
Feet slap baked ground
Clouds dissipate into
The souls of our brothers and sisters
We lean against filed wood;
Thump the ground;
Make the dust fly;
Liberate our beating hearts.
Cold sleep gives a new start
Before we roam these fair hills
Into our oblivion.

“Never forget us.”
Mother tongues hope, grasp
At the fragmented strings
Which bind us.

“I am your everything.
There will be no other.”
I know his and I weep
Before the rushing, rising gloom ahead.


Stickle Bricks

Remember the stickle
bricks stacked higher
than the world would
allow. We teeter with
the jagged tower; its
reckless vibrance raining
on our sunshine smiles.
We were the builders
of a world unseen; dreamed
in cast iron bursts of
desire to disappear
and create another
universe. I can feel
the gentle, symmetrical
anger on my uncalloused
fingers where it repeats
and repeats as my
feats grow more absurdist
and I bite my tongue
which angles up to
the moon. We scatter
to dust among them;
sweating, panting,
defunct amidst the
madness. Remember
the stickle bricks
stacked higher than
the world could possibly