In the darkness

Sheep baa for more, more, more

and the sound of the Sheppard's
sorrow shattering on concrete disillusion
Echoes off the butchers block.

Alone and afraid the shivering sheep shift

this way and that
and the sound of a tear falling on tile floor from the eye of a
confused ten year old girl
is lost amongst the yelling in the kitchen
---pots being
slammed—
and an old man screaming slurred
obscenities at the only person who could ever handle his abuse--
and she had had enough--

S'been-a hard harvest failure for a family of farmers on the

West side of the Free Land an' it won't be much
longer till the sun rises on the shut-eyed hayseeds
dreaming of waking.

the wind outside blows cold tiny bullets into the eyes of stray cats--
their cries echoing through dark alleys--
between barns and houses--
a staccato woe melody mixed with an arpeggio
scream swims through the night on gusts of
winter wind--rotten wooden shutters shatter against pane glass windows
and in the distance a young foul beckons for
its mother--

Behind the farm house--over a barren cotton hill

and down a gravel road a paper-mâché house shakes in the wind--
a ball of piss orange light flickers behind a fogged window,
bouncing Victorian shadow s

up and down,
up and down--

the sound of a de-tuned organ moaning antediluvian rhythms

crawls through lead paint cracks and gathers like a storm around the moon--

S'been-a hard harvest failure for a family of farmers on the

West side of the Free Land an' it won't be much
longer till the sun rises on the shut-eyed hayseeds
dreaming of waking.

A rusted entrance sign at the end of the dusty road

moans and wails
to passersby--Keep on walking. This road's been taken.

The storm crescendos.

The foul's beckoning becomes
a wail and the Old Man weeps heavily
in his father's handkerchief: how will
he live without his woman?
The organ's moan rides a gust of warm, moist air
up the dusty road, weaves through
untended fences around shivering
calves and grounded pigeons--

a faded e-minor nestles the nape of

the weeping farmer, slithers up rotting stairs
and into ears young, confused and impressionable.

S'been-a hard harvest failure for a family of farmers on the

West side of the Free Land an' it won't be much
longer till the sun rises on the shut-eyed hayseeds
dreaming of waking.

Lightning strikes synchronization as thunder

And sixty-eight years of dirt explode onto
dusty kitchen counters in chunks
of wet, soppy confetti.

The echo of baby boomer

booms hitches a lift on tempest
wings, until upon
the dusty road it burrows hungrily into
the Woman-Had-Enough—
who suddenly realizes all the hubris was
a facade.

Behind the farm house;

over a barren cotton hill;
down a gravel road ;
Inside the paper-mâché house the organ,
silent, listens gaily to the sound of
summer storms tearing homes from beneath
roofs ; feet from beneath callous, age-ed hands.

Reveling in the wonder of disharmony

a broken pentatonic prayer begins to moan
another blustery, wailing song up to the moon:

An offering of protection to all the shut-eyed hayseeds

still dreaming of waking.

paper-mâché