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
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.
Sitting at a park bench
blank paper absorbing drops of rain
writing a few words
heavy head
city bloated
waiting to split
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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