On the Verge of Virgo Season
I look up at an iridescent moon
as her velvety tone fills my speakers.
The cadence of a truth teller
brings my eyelids down,
and all I can repeat is the word
August 12, 2017.
Unite the Right.
The siege of a battle cry
taking over an atmosphere,
becoming the point.
dangerous yet dismissed as annoying.
A wave not to ebb low,
Not something to fall asleep to.
Much realer than a nightmare.
but seldom collapsible.
like someone telling you who they are.
someone showing you exactly
who you are to them.
A cadence never to confuse
with a lullaby
or an exaggeration.
the spooky overtones were casually rubbed out of our collective eyes.
August 12, 2019.
A reality insisting on birthright.
Our impulse to rub this feeling out of our eyes
still right below the surface,
as the rally cry builds into someone’s encore.
Someone pulling the covers
around them as they fall easily to sleep.
“Beloved” sounds in Morrison’s voice, “he was responsible for that, emotions came to the surface in his company. Things became what they were…The songs he knew from Georgia were flat-headed nails for pounding, and pounding, and pounding. Lay my head on the railroad line, train come along and pacify my mind…it was tempting to change the words.”