Paranoid
(For Emily Dickinson)
I stood Concussed
on the Margins of life
in a corner shied away
far from the Madness
the strife, the pain,
staving off the infection at bay
dizzy,
I felt the Contagion ooze
As I watched the others circulate
I endured their Whispers
glares and winks
I felt their Judgment’s wake
and when the Malady Metastasized
and Migrated to the edge
my Maginot Line was breeched
then the voices—Mellowed
the virus— waned
and the Onslaught fell into retreat
when a disciple kindly spoke
my Name
and the epidemic eased.
Ballad of the Farm Boy
“The scythe is in the hayloft, Momma
I put it there like you said
Beneath the light of the harvest moon
In the shadow of the dead.”
“Did you muster up the straw, boy
And milk the dairy cows?
Did you mend the fence and herd the sheep
And slop those filthy sows?”
“I slew the straw at sunrise, Momma
I whacked with all my might,
‘til my muscles ached like your lickin’s
When my chores ain’t done up right.”
“Did you gather up the eggs, boy
And wrench the tractor well?
And paint the barn country white
Did you the green garden till?”
“I wrung all the chicken’s necks, Momma
I pushed the tractor into the lake
I burned down the barn at sunset
And plowed up your garden with a rake.”
“Then you‘ll have none for supper, boy
And you’ll sleep on the porch again
And you’ll say your prayers in the corner
To atone for your grievous sin.”
“First, I’ll wipe down my bloody blade, Momma
And put away the scythe and soon
I’ll whistle a tune of freedom, Momma
While you rot under the harvest moon.”
The Summoning
When the fog rides on the ridge
And the moon swallows the sun,
When trees have shed their summer wares,
The mutation has begun.
Then mellow autumn breezes
Amalgamate with frost
While mystics conjure specters
In woods of slumber lost
A whistle pierces through that night
A howling overhead,
A beckoning of otherness
Summoning the dead.
The scent and essence of the damned
Meander in the air
And wrap around the vulnerable
In intermingling despair.
And as the muster of this mire
Descends upon the fey,
It brands in smoke and frothy fumes
The mark of Cain conveyed.
To the fraternity,
As incantation to the source,
Of mortal culpability
Comingled with remorse.
