Fried Chicken & Philosophy

The land blows away
one handful at a time.
It heaps against windows
and forgotten places.

The rain ran through her hair
filled her mouth
slipped from her fingers
Now comes the dust bowl years
The swirls catch me up
drop me nowhere
near the rainbow.

Mirrors held face to face
diminishing
endless
How endless is the land
her yield diminishing
How forward and reverse
a curse of knowledge

The rain was today
Rivulets from her shoulders
down her arms
and off her fingertips.
I lay under them
hoping
drops of potent potion
will fill me as a well

Waterfalls vaporize
create forest and frenzy
cool and calm
pool and purpose

A perfectly cornered thing
blows across the land
hides queens
and covers kings
with dust.
It points beyond the wind
to a heart that holds lost love.

The pretty things
I could have kissed
the parties I have missed
it comes to this
unnatural pose
mangled flowers
children wailing under chairs
a teaspoon full of tears.

Ah, the parties, the pretty things
missed, kissed, it comes to this.

Everyone wants surgeon hands
deft blood covered fingers.

Pianist painter guilt free hands
worker hands praying angry
athletes raised fists.

I’ve got my father’s hammer hands
nail fingers benzene burns calluses and scars
his hands knew tools and birthmarks
his fingers sharp knew magic wood.

My father’s hands knew liquor
trembling poured watch your back sad lonely drinks
crushed beer cans rabbit punched palmed dollars and razors.

His hands knew snake eyed dice
inside straights bent edge cards.

His fingers were fishnets
knew back doors down but not out whores
silk hems straight hair curls
did not look it they knew women.

His hands knew chicken necks
bull necks red necks and throats
sway backs ups and downs
blacks and whites white and black
left fingerprints on mom and me.

My father’s hands wanted no others.
I wanted his touch I have no hands.