by Rich Baiocco
Hold to this old shed
with your soul shred to ribbons
use rags to wrap presents
for the children of prisoners.
Scrape the resin from your toiled harvest
and bury by moontide and torchlight your confessions
in the breast of the cracked winter soil.
Let lay all haste, that spit and impotence,
the hollow words of politicians
and laced halos of praise
that parade fake generals through the shame of men they can no longer face.
Hold To This Old Shed.
Recoil the power of your torn core, harness all your torque,
ignore the gallop of restlessness and fierce winds,
of summer hawks flapping to southern shores.
Sow your confessions deep, and trust you will reap such wild trees.
Give the fruit to your friends with laughter,
for the wood to craft spears
is what you’re truly after.
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Rich Baiocco lives in New York City and is the author of Julie In Mittens. He’s been published a little bit at Everyday Genius, 6 Sentences, NWV, and on bathroom stalls across America. He writes at the Shwardo Site, http://shwardo.tumblr.com. Get in touch. |
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