Tumbleweed Corner
from books "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" and "Bending Rivers" Buried hearts at Tumbleweed Corner. The thistles split apart bad men as they choke. Santa Fe, on a hot New Mexico morning. The jury decided to hang the man. The creeps, They follow with chisels, with rope. A chilling smile, Their creepy walk. Like a dictator marching from their tomb. Cuff marks leaving my hands raw and sore. Dry air sucked in, That dust, That failure. On the septic trails, My dusty boots enriched in blood. From a man that found his soul. He was lost forever from his native Ohio. He met his demise here in New Mexico when - The sunrise began to drop dead heat on the wagons - during our horses first meal of the morning. The lonely man, He was enamel bare to the shaking, the menacing inevitable. Once he saw my hatchet teeth, My bull rope eyes He was just collecting horseshoes off dirty roads. Those cloudy roads named in honor of befallen heroes. As I sat there, judgment awaiting. The judge sweats the sun's breath. Moving his body into a boring inertial state. He's a rock And will not change. His mind is predetermined My lifeforce begins to drip. To image itself as melting metal. The toughness, I become a shy child. The people look at me with evil intentions. Purity no more in their Christian hearts. They wait to see my remorse. My sunburnt face with the boils, The leather chapped cheeks The flaming sticks for a nose, The ears that are dark and hidden like a tunnel. The face that can't find the guilt. I've been ripped away from my internal being. I can only hiccup memories to the brain The crying mornings, Under this town's smoldering bridge. Almost every morning. They grab me by the stale leaf hair. Pull my hungered body to the bird-shit ground. The smell is now of old crusts and ashes. That hot New Mexico sun has been burning - my skeleton chest through my flannel shirt, My bank robber legs through my tattered jeans The sun poisoned my mind to obscenity. I'm clinging to you, Clinging to your thistles, Lord I've eaten from all the ratty coffee cans too long. I spit out all the ashes Of all the dreamers. Just rake away. Tired of the spirits of those I've killed for green greed, awakening me Kissing the blade of the machete A sorrow of laughter, And then disappearances into - The nocturnal rib of the air Tumbleweed Corner is now heartless. Those that were buried are now walking They become the zombie vision, Thieves that stole back their dignity. My soul is left for scavengers. Drag me away like rags. Empty with the scars To bury me in the gut of stars. Eternally trying not to fall to the fires below. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog. Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now! Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today! Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren The return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and stories
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