“america in all lower case” by w.r. green

there’s a giant dog in my neighborhood

living under the deck, 4 houses down,

on the right, behind that white picket fence

faded now, but still standing guard.

well i think that’s the house.

i only know because the lady

down the street

told me

about him,

and though she drinks a bit,

well maybe a lot,

she sits by her window

all day

and all night

singing a song not played

on the radio

in ages, not since the radio was

america’s voice,

waiting, for what

she will not say.

she points out to me in her

whiskey hushed tone

the absence of life, in

or around

the overgrown houses

paint peeling, cars melted into the asphalt.

he’s there, she assures me

a cigarette, no filter, bent from the pack,

pointing to no where specific.

we both stand in her yard, watching in vain,

the sun playing tricks

the weeds wild

and free, unhindered

and unleashed

like the dog.

We both shield our eyes, hers old and watering

and blue like the sky, mine brown and disappointed,

and wave

as the last moving truck pulls away,

a small dog barking from the passenger’s lap

his joy at making it out alive

obvious.

W.R. Green was born and raised in Mississippi and now lives in Montana with his wife and children.  He is currently working on a collection of poems titled The Red Suitcase.  

graffiti by W.R. Green

i am but one
the bullet unfired
metal on metal
cold, at rest
but loaded and ready
the heat my natural state
waiting for the bite of the pin
the release, frenetic
fire and smoke
a thunderclap
reverberating
breaking bottles
and silence
and hearts
and limbs
no longer pent up
repentant no more
in an instant
all my fury
suddenly visible.

devil’s accordion by W.R. Green

dragging him down
dancing
in the streets,
littered,
feathers like confetti,
only red.
fists fill the sky instead,
meeting the voices rising
oom pah pah
oom pah pah
like a lost polka
they jangled on.
the mad house loose
sanity locked away
afraid of voice given
by having it cut away
oom pah pah
oom pah pah
the tempo crashes
swirling delirium
a flash
a roar
the end.
the devil’s accordion
melts away
like the blood in the snow
in the woods so many years ago.

W.R. Green was born and raised in Mississippi and now lives in Montana with his wife and children.  He is currently working on a collection of poems titled The Red Suitcase.