Her house was underground
in a town that ends in “A”
her daddy was a preacher
but the preachin’ wouldn’t pay
when her brother tried to drown
cause he didn’t wanna grey
I tried for days to reach her
but she took a week to say

meet me in the roundabout
in the town square
I can’t bear to stay silent
need to talk to a listener

kiss me on the head and mouth
fingers in hair
run away with my defiance
take a walk with me whisperer

when I refused

she went underground
in a self-destructive way
screwed addicts, pimps, and creatures
and the reapers of the fray

when her mother roused the town
cause her daughter made her grey
I tried for days to reach her
filled her voicemail with dismay:

“Girl meet me in the roundabout
in the town square
I’m aware you need guidance
and I’m shocked you’re so insular.”

Dismissed me, she, my dread and mouth
lingers in air
for weeks shared her silence
(this this child of a minister)

found her body underground
in a shallow ashen grave
killed by the unnamed creatures
who had raped her like a slave

with the other they had drowned
how their bodies were arrayed
I can’t forget their features
no sense in either sleeper
in grief I am a seeker
How’d the fire get in this freezer?

Oh how the fire?

How’d the fire get in this freezer?

I left the scene to pray.
I leave crime scenes to pray.
I grieved, chimed, screamed, and prayed:

God, meet me in the roundabout
in the town square
I can’t bear to stay silent
need to talk to a Listener.

anoint me on the head and mouth
show me You care
did You take on our violence?
See the chalklines, oh Whisperer?

Tell me now of Your renown.
See how I’m scared?
Is our planet a black island
Or the inkwell of a scrivener?

Please tell me now of Your renown.
See how I’m scared?
Is our planet a black island
Or the inkwell of a scrivener?

Is our planet a black island
Or the inkwell of a scrivener?

 

---

:: about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

cover image by Nicolás Boullosa

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