Letter from the Editor

Here are two poems I wrote some time ago now that have been on this “blog” thing since they were written, but to anyone who ever stops by here, I would like to present them again. I do not take enjoyment out of providing an “explanation” to any piece I have written, and never have. However, I feel I should say something of these two pieces. The heart of these pieces is the concept of Liberty and her descent into the madness of ever encroaching religiosity. I can think of no time better than a moment where we here in my home state of California are being asked to vote as to whether or not a valuable aspect of the human experience meets the requirement set for being treated with the dignity and respect deserved to all peoples. As an American, I am saddened, albeit unsurprised, by the question. I know and have known too many people not to be outraged. Here are the pieces, the first is an examination of the idea of religious encroachment upon Liberty, the other, the moment of Liberty’s demise. The second should actually be contained in the first, though I like them separated. Despite their tone, I do keep hope. If anyone ever reads this, Thank You.

...they say she gone mad...
whipped the way that skin gets torn when
bound the way that hands pray
there comes through this valley a ghost encased in gold
a rider with scars on his hands
and a fortune teller dying in the sun

she holds the home together with grit
hard the way that only your children's deaths can
sewn the way that dried up makes
there is dust in the distance
and the air doesn't want to move

a wolf raises his ears like sound had cracked
and watches the trio roll by
haunch over hunch and lost it would seem
save the smell of fear
from the house just ahead

she bars the door like fort
and watches with hard pale eyes
close like secrets they gather their strength in long breaths
but not enough
and they make a camp just outside

two days pass and she has not blinked
a cross in one hand and the rifle in the other
hoping one will protect her
and the other set her free

on the third day the fortune teller dies
and as the ghost gets drunk
the rider rips his right eye out and decides against the other
just as the corpse had said he would do

burned the way that desert is cracked
snared the way that paws trapshe is finally shocked into sleep
long the way of failed hunt
her grip on freedom slides

the ghost will take her soul
the rider the eye he thinks will suit
the fortune teller rises from the dead
and as the dust gets kicked up away away
the wolf moves into the home

-arf 06

...oh say can she see...
she spills herself onto broken ground
watches her insides go
with hands not meant for this she holds in what she can
but the pressure and the heat and the ooze of it all keeps
it allows itself out
storming like flash

there is hoping
there is praying
there will be more symptoms to bear

her breath is hot lead
a mix of molten dreams and fiery contempt
as if lung against lung were the natural order of things
she tells herself she will not keel silently
as her tongue melts on the floor at her feet

there is salutingt
here is singing
there will be more losses like this

someone lesser by now would not be
her skin becoming a terrible candy
a treat for the hurt in its hour of need
still her balance holds
but she is no longer sureif it is her or it
or both holding fast to the other

there is demanding
there is warring
there will be more fearful dark ahead

breakpoint passed she feels it all crack
the know in her must try and hold

along the edges of her dazed vision
she sees enough to warrant the next promise
of another day
another step closer
to a heal
that snuck out behind her
years ago

-arf 06