Swallow them down
Lumps of coal leaving dust in my throat
Cough once
Cough twice
Spit out black coal dust
Brush my teeth

In my chest
Or sometimes my stomach
The pressure builds

When I *****
And my stomach wretches
And my heart seizes

They'll climb back up my esophagus
Edges sharpened
Reflecting crimson gore
From the paths they cut as they came back out

If coal can turn into diamonds
Can my "self restraint"
Turn a bitten tongue into silver?

I cut my voice on diamonds
They looked like rubies when I spit them out

Grieving the living,
Envying the dead,
This world is one
That will **** with your head.

And like amber,
Time here will harden you.
But leave a beauteous soul.
As a hunk of coal,
They will burn you
And chide, as you go up in smoke.

I am charcoal cooking out for the summer
loading boxes into a freight truck
like coals into the furnace
powering America's materialist engine
the boxes rising like greed
until I've filled that truck's needs
exiting the trailer smoldering
like a coal in the furnace
powering corporate production
steam is all that rises as I melt into the ground
trucks leave like emissions into the air
obstructing my vision as I gaze down the street
through the haze of summer streaks
another truck approaches for repeat
a microwave set to reheat.

Remember, it takes a hell of a lot of coal, trees, and gasoline to produce and move electricity. It also takes a hell of a lot of electricity, trees, and coal to produce gasoline. Same can be said about coal. It takes a lot of trees, electricity and gasoline to produce coal. Hello? Knock knock. Anyone home? Add in helium and other gases too.

Eastern Montana Badlands
1930s....

Coal where one found it,
Scoria hills,
Layered lignite
Waiting near the surface.

Burning lignite beds,
Smoldering centuries old,
Scarring and turning clay to scoria,
Crumbling rock,
Testimony to lightning fires
Beneath the hills.

Crude mines backed into cliffs,
Pick and shoveled coal
Free for the risky taking
Heated homes.

Coal caves,
Low and gaping,
Horizontal shafts.
Wagons first, then
Trucks backed in.

Crowbars and picks
Brought lignite ceilings
Crashing in rotten shatters
Mounding, sometimes burying
Trucks below.

My father told me
How he helped
Chris Ginther,
Deaf coal miner,
Hammer holes,
Insert charges,
Long fuses, trailing.

Old Chris packing holes,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping...
Lighting fuses,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping.

My father said he'd yell
"We need to go!"

Old Chris
Seemed never to hear,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Tamping,
Until finally...
Sauntering out
Before the rumbling Thump.

I can see the two,
Chris and my father,
Just a boy,
Lost in lignite clouds,
Coughing.

Little lump of coal

In my stocking

I must’ve forgotten
how to be human

Santa saw me crying on the floor
Screaming and rocking
Back and forth

I forgot how to feel Christmas cheer
My reflection looks so tired
surrounded by my own fears

My mind is crippled
Shaken so hard
I malfunction
Too often

I suppose I’ve strayed too far
Away from god? Too far for Santa’s reindeer?

Nose bleeds and therapy
At least we have a Christmas tree?

I don’t mind coal
I can use it for my sketches

Maybe I’ll light a fire
Watch the flame flicker
Until it settles
And my eyes tire

This little light of mine
I guess I’ll let it shine
With my little lump of coal

My heart finds it’s own way
To feel full

sunrise promised to wait for us
the dawn did not rise over the village,
in the eyes of the muses
the dawn promised to wait for us

muses are not like poets,
not even like the sun
that
burns its rays on the cascades moved by lazy waves,

- the dawn did not rise over the village,
the down promised to wait for us,
swore to the muses,
swore that the water would comb at the rising sun
  smoothly
it will burn in his eyes like the star of the night while planting a garden
where
the muses smolder all year round like flowers, or
like coal extracted from the hearts of poets,

I am not coal to be pressured
And form into a diamond
I am human,
Under enough crushing pressure
For ever so long
Never to let up
I will break
For I am flesh and bone
Not of rot and stone

If I am to break
My dear little bones
The pieces must be put back together
Held in tender care behind walls
Before they can heal again
To become stronger than before

So, mind the walls
For I am healing
They will come down when I am ready
When my bones have mended
Strengthened anew.

- Jay M
April 20th, 2021