Poetry writing
Been working on this poem for about ten hours or so (over three days). I think this is officially the rough draft. It's my first in a while. Hope all is well kids.
The Atheist
III
San Antonio, Texas
September 19, 2004: The Holocaust of Dolls
The horseflies sidewind off the garbage bin
as it swallows the thunking of a sack.
The autumn sparks an arid, leafy roast.
My neighbors’ son is crouching off his heels
over a heap of brittle, curling black-a black
I know, a black that stung like hot exhaust
when I would peer over my brother’s back
and see his tongue bulging under his skin
like a cartoon rabbit veining a field.
His eye, distorted like a god’s
in the handled lens,
ignored the leaves only to pop
an insect’s abdomen.
The same nightmare shook us both from the nap
of childhood. In the Holocaust of dolls,
our oven doubled soldiers over twice.
They shrugged their shoulders off for their finale.
Our superheroes’ straight-chinned, brave-faced skulls
made origami lanterns in the vice.
Transformers, frozen like Neanderthals,
paused the air like graduation caps
and severed crystal-smooth against the alley.
Our laughter stumbled wading through
the sinking of a twinge.
I push against the grating of
my fence’s rusted hinge.
The Atheist
III
San Antonio, Texas
September 19, 2004: The Holocaust of Dolls
The horseflies sidewind off the garbage bin
as it swallows the thunking of a sack.
The autumn sparks an arid, leafy roast.
My neighbors’ son is crouching off his heels
over a heap of brittle, curling black-a black
I know, a black that stung like hot exhaust
when I would peer over my brother’s back
and see his tongue bulging under his skin
like a cartoon rabbit veining a field.
His eye, distorted like a god’s
in the handled lens,
ignored the leaves only to pop
an insect’s abdomen.
The same nightmare shook us both from the nap
of childhood. In the Holocaust of dolls,
our oven doubled soldiers over twice.
They shrugged their shoulders off for their finale.
Our superheroes’ straight-chinned, brave-faced skulls
made origami lanterns in the vice.
Transformers, frozen like Neanderthals,
paused the air like graduation caps
and severed crystal-smooth against the alley.
Our laughter stumbled wading through
the sinking of a twinge.
I push against the grating of
my fence’s rusted hinge.