Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 

 

China Snow

China Snow

So the march goes on, despite the storm

that sheaths the streets of steam and dust,

and the nipples of umbrellas leak

Sweet rain on melodies of those who mourn.


Who is it that we send away,

In caskets of fern and willow blue?

Another touched by flame and needle

The yellow sick line our bayou.


The rest, they draw, as a two-tongued sword

This dry decanter, an empty toast

To those who paid the price of poison

To those whose paper lies cost them the most.


This winter parade, weaves its warning

Along Saint Claude, the cardboard pleas

of those whose honey has run dry,

Beg for shelter from fallen trees .


Will they hear us, blinded worms,

Through the junk that lines their teeth?

Does the message pound from us, or

Does it rise from underneath?


Thus the trudge goes on, through wounded streets

the pale surrender, flags of torn sheets

And if they lay their weapons down

may they march, with us, through our sick town.


The Sense of Suffering

The Sense of Suffering

A Martyr's Game

A Martyr's Game