WES MCDANIEL - POEMS
The brown shirts came through the streets in tanks,
It’s a Crisis! Crisis!
For public safety they installed an intercom on every block declaring,
On national security grounds, they came to every town, saying it’s time to lock it down!
The order was orange in origin,
coming from the toilet.
You only need fourteen characters to type, Crisis! Crisis!
The pastor told the congregation, you still have to come on Easter.
This is what we’ve been waiting for, it’s the rapture!
Wall Street were not going down, tell the people the economy is still sound,
we’re going to sell! sell! sell!
Because it’s a Crisis! Crisis!
Take the job, take the house, take the furniture.
Take that person off of the ventilator! Its cutting into the profits! We can’t bring the prices down, that would be a Crisis! Crisis!
Keep your social distance while your living on the street, six feet, six feet.
Grab a book bag, put on your Guy Fawkes mask, throw your iPhone at every Starbucks locations glass.
At the point of breaking,
the endless consumption is nothing but running to the end of waiting.
Have to go, can't stay,
the only things left are anchors and stripped grenades.
Unswept stained glass still on the wooden floor
waiting like it died for a cause that doesn't matter anymore.
We won that old war
over our heartbeats.
A book opens to the ledger
Taking account of what is left to be used, sold, or removed.
Tape screams as its wrapped around the boxes
Sharper reads, “This is where my thoughts live.”
Pack it up in the truck filled with I should have been around.
Scanning the crowd
To find a face that doesn’t know
the weight and the depth
of what it all meant
to tear in two
That's the learning how.
The tearing muscles, the tearing of a mind from the living room
Where no one sits on the ornament furniture.
Spilled a glass of my red blood on the white carpet,
burnt all the pictures and let the ashes fall like a nuclear winter.
When the tears trickled down a burning face, you said, “It will be ok”, and held me
When my feet had nowhere else to go, you housed me
When the phone range, even at the end of the day, you answered, you listened
When my face hit the wall again, and again, you said I wasn’t crazy
When I reached out to grab it and missed, you held my hand
When I wanted to die you said I had value, we can’t give up that easy
When the days felt like weights on my ankles you said I was strong enough to take it
When I said I was stupid you gave me a book with a personal note
When the existential dread hovered over me like grey rain clouds you gave me an umbrella
When I wanted to yell you gave me a megaphone
When I didn’t believe in myself you offered me quotes from insecure heroes
When I die, I hope it is after you, thank you
A hopeless romantic hobo hobbled hungry and alone.
Examining ruins of payphones for a collect call.
The future like an oval racetrack, round and round,
to no destination, and now, no winner.
Needle pricks in arms until it goes to the toes,
slowly erodes, to sweating in undisclosed war torn Terradomes.
The call came through to a friend, but in the end,
all the pretend, to be new men, trip trying to walk up the stairs.
Unaware, they are chasing a fading voice that started so loud.
“The Candyman can,
because he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good.”
Back into the real version of the story, written by disjointed collections of disappointments.
Crumbled up, thrown, then let go, like a balloon slowly suspended in the air.
Before trailing off to become another dot in the pattern of the stippling
Work from an anonymous author.
Crayola Yellow Youthful Summer
The Crayola Yellow pollen covered the car, there's no make or model.
Flip flops like hooves over the concrete sidewalks
Linoleum kitchen floors
Durable, never cracking, sunshine burning
bare feet won’t survive despite past traverses over sand dunes for forty days and forty nights.
Public pools produce a cacophony of children ignorant of their freedom
Parents numb on prescriptions, contaminating the water supply.
Long, aimless, windowless, rides along winding tree lined youthful asphalt
Ignoring the Crayola Yellow lines for those only matter to mortals.
Sex in dispossessed
back seats at 2am, still warm out, they sweat.
Drinking liquor out of stolen 7-Eleven Double Gulp cups filled up with rum and Coke and some hope.
Inconspicuous thrill like getting away with a crime
No such thing as time,
Stephen Hawking its relativity, agreeing there are absolutely no absolutes.
Staring at a tanned, hairless body in the mirror after five straight hours in the sunshine,
peeling back for tan lines, only to find the number 16.
The salty breeze blows a light linen curtain up and down
Hearts hungry for crashing, healing water.
Crayola Yellow door acts as an ascent to the light blue facade, blending together with the sky,