Category: Hell
Poof* Take MY water

ATM
They
will sell you
candy cigarettes,
insulin,
Camel Wides,
chemotherapy,
God,
nicotine patches,
life insurance,
and a bronze casket
all
in one lifetime.
last night
shots rang out
slicing August’s midnight miasma
a quivering queen city listened
as Cherokee bells
echoed over cobblestones
black swan feathers topping lost hopes
filling horse-drawn funeral carriages
eighteen shot
four dead
blood pooling at the base
seven screaming hills
four shootings in Cincinnati
ninety fatal minutes
national news coverage
backlit red images
of our violent infection
suffer do we
these slings & arrows
whispering sacred prayers
to a god unlistening
please make
every bullet fired
explode into a spray
of evening primroses
absent without leave
who can sleep
through the raging silence
of all our canceled parties
two decades ago i took
an overdue trip to Central Ohio
introducing my former mother-in-law to her six month old twin grandsons
we got to talking about Kentucky
as all transplanted Kentuckians do
we bounced gurgling baby innocence on our respective maternal knees having our own little gossip social
curling wispy baby hairs in her worn fingers
her laughter turned to pained breaths
as she shuttered out
a mortifying truth
about a bluegrass upbringing
she was discussing how she had been repeatedly raped as a girl by her father in Hyden, Kentucky
ran away to something worse at 14
how her first marriage ended when she found her alcoholic unemploymed coal miner husband was molesting her two little girls while she was waitressing to support the jerk
fleeing north to Ohio with them
to single motherdom with three kids in the 1960s living in a car until she could afford a place to rent
tears streamed down
her withered cheeks
as she said
“A girl child isn’t safe growing up around a family of men in the South.”
20 years later i think of her words and the women in my biological family
four generations of women who tried to protect their genitalia from one family member
the irony of being expected to smile and pretend
give forgiving hugs
that i’m the one who doesn’t feel comfortable coming to the Thanksgiving table
not the man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself
don’t you worry, working poor
the richest people
will always have access
to
food
clothing
shelter
sex
god’s offering plate
drugs to feel good
meaningless trophies
abortions too
so go on fighting
about the right
to wear a gun
but not a face mask
in your red Trump hat
and Walmart shoes
the moment he turned
and walked away
our world became peckinpah
i can no longer discern
whose blood
my hands are weeping over
shock jock
there are times
i feel like the only person alive
who feels that
one Bukowski
was enough
master class
i suppose you could say
i’m one of those people
who has seen more than their
fair share of things
you will certainly find
me adept
in a broad range of topics
from culinary techniques
to obscure music
embalming
comic books
addictive substances
and
lesser know shitty diners
of the northeast
some of it owed to college
and my need
to join the rat race too soon
mostly it was my proclivities
my insistence on taking
a master class
in dating old fucks
what an education