Hawkelson Rainier lives and works in the American Midwest. He dabbles in short fiction and poetry during his spare time. Recently, he started a blog that examines the creative writing process. You can find it at hawkelsonrainier.com.
A Procrastinator’s Epiphany
The whiskey is mellow,
and the hammock sways
as a Southerly breeze delivers
me into an oblivious sleep.
I wake to the screams
of a million Mayflies
in their death throes, and
the wind is out of the
Northeast now, siphoning
the heat from my bones.
A red Sun has scribbled
its mad manifesto
across the ugly world
in serpentine shadows:
I will hold you in orbit, and
you will mark the revolutions.
Squander these days, or don’t –
I will not remember your name.
Infinities will be devoured
by greater infinities. Immortality
is an abomination – the gift is
this moment, right now.
The Yankee Devil Goes to Church
I’m in the deep South during the dog days,
and the Sun has not been up long, but the heat
is already like a weight pressing last night's whiskey
out of my pores.
I step into the shadow cast by the cross on top of the steeple,
a swath of darkness cut into the searing light.
I’m an outsider here, resented for something Sherman did
more than a hundred years before I was born.
Old politics, old money, old hate, and I wonder why
I ever came to this place.
Then I see her - tall and tan, wearing a summer dress
that whispers of the sensuality beneath.
She takes my hand and leads me to the cruel oak pews,
to the brittle pages filled with beautiful words
I want to believe, but never could,
and never will.
Op-eds and Obituaries
He chased an apparition
around The Circus Maximus
of his mind. It was a shapeshifter,
a lost love, a Rolls-Royce,
it was whatever he believed
happiness might have been
at the moment.
He chased it for decades,
for a lifetime, for all he was worth,
until he finally ran it down
and tackled the damned thing.
It turned out to be nothing more
than a threadbare flannel shirt
and faded blue jeans stuffed
with yellowed newspaper,
all op-eds and obituaries.
“Well, I don’t think that’s fair at all,” he said,
and then he died.