excerpts from Fragments of Unidentifiable Form

effigy of a small town

Like every other place
just like it, this one will never change.
Same buildings, different signs; same faces,
new wrinkles, bags and gray beards;
eyes more deeply pitted from squinting
into the gradually appearing sun, while the clouds
fall away like a new lover disrobes—

a tease.

This place is eternal,
the mountains cradling all these pitted eyes. These mountains—
where you can’t really tell anymore
where the tornado tore through
where the forest burned for months
during that one long spring and summer
when I swore the world was ending.

Memories greet me first, standing by the shopping center
holding signs like union protesters:

“and just where the hell have you been?”

Peculiar malcontents, they pelt me
with rotten eggs and tomatoes. If they follow me,
ferret out where I’m staying,
they’ll toilet paper my car and pop the tires
for good measure. If I’m lucky,
I’ll outrun them and their raggedy-ass shoes,
escape into the heart of town
where I will have to hide
from old lovers and enemies
who have not forgotten me
despite my best efforts to disappear.
Upon my return, I am lost in the persistence of things
this place, these pitted eyes
following me
everywhere
down each familiar backstreet
with a unique brand of idealism
and unrelenting protestant restraint.

This is a town where people go to find Jesus
nailed to some random tree in the National Forest.
Or, most likely mistaken for old moss and tree rot,
then felled in the name of designer plywood cabinets, scented fireplace chips,
mulch and potpourri. But since the illusion of cleanliness
is next to Godliness, the body of Christ
should emit the scent of spring flowers and ammonia
to cleanse our mortal souls.

that poem I never wrote for you (and why)

You’ve wanted me to suffer.
There’s something redemptive in that kind of revenge,
in that kind of bitterness taken root
in the chest cavity. You want me alone:
self-tragic figure outside the window
standing in the rain with my broken umbrella and Salvation Army trenchcoat;
some scene from one of those country songs you’re so fond of
these past 10 yrs and 2 marriages
meant to erase your bitterness beyond root
dug up somewhere between young love and old man’s regret
those inherited fears buried in your bones
and my brain
we never knew were there.

We never had a chance—
so much love turned over
roots gone bloody, then black
like the bile in my throat when I think of you
bitter in my mouth
spitting obscenities
so much mulch and bones
buried so deep, toxic marrow
taken root in the rain outside some window of some house
we might’ve dreamed of
(I’ve long since forgotten our dreams)
back before
when we were so young and bitter free.

Requiem Blue, Verse 2 (for Lonnie)

These nights were meant to ferment the imagination.
Dreams take shape in summer heat
fed on cold beer and pipe smoke wrapped round shaking fingers
waiting for a séance to pass as some sort of explanation.
All our uncomfortable ghosts walk on this heavy heat
like sidewalk cement through the chest cavity
looking for that bottom basement consciousness store
to remind themselves of life before the afterlife
before they knew what it meant to breathe by the absence of air.
All these lines
little notes to self
reminders of things
I ought not forget
even while the world
spins and fades / for you
from whom I learned so much
about what it means to be useful.

Bet you’re laughing now
where ever you are—

their heaven you didn’t believe in
or the hell he preached you into.

The good pastor used you metaphorically.
I couldn’t help but notice
you’d have appreciated his effort.

and don’t forget a few proper verses
for the good pastor Rev. Johnny Hurt (Apostolic),
who broke the golden rule all our mama’s taught us:

if you don’t have anything good to say—

but if you’re Baptist
or firebrand
presumption beats out contemplation
every time.

Eastern Kentucky Burial
politicking as usual
the sheriff wore his gun
‘cause a coon dog bit his dick off.
The house was packed at the dissenter’s cemetery
Fritz, Frack, and Dooley Home for Funerals
where all the unsaved go to get their comeuppance
like God’s afterthought. We sat in the back
and I couldn’t help but laugh. I’ve never known how to behave facing Death.

All uncomfortable ghosts walk in this heavy summer heat}
but you

brother writer
brother drunkard
brother preacher to the damned

are not here
except in memory
and in these few poor lines
that still miss the rhythm
of a proper eulogy.