Woody 5d
A caw-
ing of birds
with blunt
-ed beaks
and clip-
ped wings
that can’t fly
or sing
worth a lick
-ety split
always
pick-
ing and peck
-ing a-way
at the best
chirp-
ing inside
a chest
-full of
beat-
ing Blue
-birds'
heart-
felt art
-tistic
songs in-
stead
of sing
-ing along
think-
ing they
know better
than
-   the rest?
This in response to the deletion of a great and true HP Poet’s account tonight as a result of constant harassment by at last count 13 dumbass, iealous, couldn’t write a decent poem if the male har-ass-ers tripped over their stupid pricks and the idiotic wagging female tongues who all took part in this. You know who you are. This harassment was reported to HP and to Eliot directly without the courtesy of a reaponse, and without action to curb it. The creation of monitors was a total waste of time. Many of you know her as Vicki. I’m sick of this kind of shit done by supposed adults, and sickened most of all by HP’s allowing this to continue even after multiple messages. As far as I’m concerned, the Guidelines and the so-called monitors aren’t worth a fucking dime. Which is exactly 10 cents more than I’ll ever again contribute to HP.  Go ahead and lock me ip, put me in the corner for awhile, or expel me. I don’t care. Maybe  we will see if the monitors are paying attention at all, or just another silly myth. If you’re a monitor and reading this, I would like to hear your thoughts after you wake the fuck up.
Most Sincerely,
Me
Woody 7d
The clock struck something
deep in the Creek, my brother
said it’s nothing, keep dreaming,
he didn’t notice the hour for
the lamp-smoke, our power
was out, you see, and all
I could hear was the roiling
water of the storm, the unsettling
wind on the roof, like kettles
filled with boiling red men,
they were all grinning
and talking precisely, like
the foot of a newborn, or
stripes on a snake, marveling
at the grace, the naked form
of my father’s guitar playing
the blues like only the dark
clouds before morning can do.
Woody Aug 9
Do not listen to hunting dogs
baying in dark woods, or the black
flies buzzing around in your head
remembering long dead friends

Poets have done this before
and they’ve wandered off
alone and unheard of to bury
the caul of their own stillborn

Every time I open a bottle
of red wine, the bad Moon
dowses blood from the virgin’s
stone thighs and I think I am
handsome, young and drunk
again, eternal as a weed

Poets have made love and gathered
at the cheap joints, cutting their fingers
toasting one another, curse words
hidden deep beneath low breaths
and the noise of a singer’s raspy voice

They’ve gotten cold feet
at the crucial moments when
left alone with the student
that had the saddest blue eyes

Poets have done this before,
I assure you, my friends

Every time I see a young man
tucking a gun in the back of his pants
I want to say forget it and drink
or have a seat, my brother, let’s rap

Poets have done this before,
I seen it behind dark eyes at night

We are but dust under the hooves
of horses running side by side
with the fog, thinking all that moves
us to write is something new, like light
that shines for the lonely bone moth

Poets have done this before

I know it like the cigarette holes
she burned through my tablecloth
on those cold nights she spent writing,
like her cough I could hear, so long
a time ago, I’d rather not remember.
Woody Aug 7
Donald J. Trump,
POTUS.
Poor us.
Apologies to Master Poet Neruda.

The Resistance
Woody Aug 5
The dark skinned tenant farmer
sleepless, hungry, yawning
rocking on a rickety porch
near midnight staring wide-
eyed at the sky and full moon
thinking not dreaming of a black
dinner bell, a large bright white
house, like an empty china plate
with no supper laid out, loud
skinny dog growling at the sour
smell of a certain kind of fate
carried on a southerly wind
just enough to make tired old
cotton picking men feel cold
and full of a poor man’s hate.
Woody Aug 2
When I go out at night
and the light is gone,
the moon waiting to take me
home has eclipsed all, and
all that I am left with are these
empty hands and no direction,
when I was only hoping
for a prayer, here by the ocean,
alone with the lowing tide,
where all I find is absence,
a sadness, no substance, no
sustenance, no alms, no raised
palms, only a calm kind of
a quiet sort of nothingness.
Woody Aug 1
The unnatural light
on this last dusk of July
sends the grackles
into the cedars
rattling their wings
in the evergreens
making a sound
like Ishmael did
casting his bones
around the deck
of Ahab’s ship.
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