Stephen Jarrell Williams

Hard Heads
 
Clouds coming in
for another gathering
over the mute masses
 
raining down
chemical changes
ingesting opposing thoughts
 
their multiple eyes
searing
loose bowels
and weak souls
 
but not us
 
we are the Hard Heads
dashing out of line
 
out of their long fingers
gripping the jelly population
 
we shout in the alleys
for their quick amputation
 
let the bullets ping
off our foreheads
 
let their drills break
on our front teeth
 
let their message melt
from the heat of our breath
 
for they only win if
we bow to the chopping block.
 
 
 
Cleansing
 
Sitting at a park bench
blank paper absorbing drops of rain
 
writing a few words
heavy head
 
city bloated
waiting to split
 
crime
inside everyone
 
bellowing storm
everything starting to fall out
 
wet dirt coiling into little mounds
horns as slick as sin
 
watching our step
leaping into a moment of free air
 
freak dancing
footprints the last line of this poem.
 

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