Dime store heresies: a poem by Kevin James Miller 1. At the end of childhood’s road, no one waited for me under the weeping willow in the clearing; In none of those nights was there a sweet talking woman with something to hide; The one and only time I saw American Graffiti it might as well have been about Martians, or Daleks, or John Joseph Black Jack Pershing; Five and a half decades in, nothing has changed with the grave still over there and be on this side. 2. In this late year of legally sanctioned racist murders and immortal winters, when my old high school contacts me, I have to wonder what conversation are they having with themselves? My flag planted in middle age, I know how to feed my stomach, my mind, but I have no idea how to feed my heart; So let my old high school tell me about my memories of Prom and the Big Game, and then they can go talk to dragons and elves; Is she interested, is she available, is she possible – oh but I can write a poem, essay, or novel, but still haven’t yet learned THAT art. 3. In attendance in worship to God, I am a vampire, I am a werewolf, and I am anything but here even as I am here; Surrounded in sanctuary by human beings who five and a half decades in have produced estates and legacies; Would have been a better trip with Neal Cassidy in the middle seat instead of Eric, Annie, and Matt Camden, I fear. Would love to be building America’s future, but my talents tend more towards dime store heresies. 4. At the end of childhood’s road, this stuffed toy alligator, this MAN FROM UNCLE spy skit, this green cover Mother Goose; Belonged to me and me only, and nobody and nothing else, and I’d see you later at the town hall, friend, but I think at the end of the road I let something unruly loose. Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Posted on: Wed, 19 Mar 2014 20:22:48 +0000
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