Is the worst idea I’ve ever been proud of. Loyalty
Is chink in every plate of my armor. I’d love to tell you
That’s worth it.
I just can’t.
Less a choice, or a culture
more a force, like a thunderstorm
Like typhoon, like this sea
will fucking swallow you
So pray often.
Because dead men tell no tales.
But if you’re anything like me,
And have not let a poor choice stop you yet,
Then pull up a stool.
Have a drink.
Take the pig sticker
out of your rib cage,
And tell me a story.
Ya know, there are children who can’t laugh
In cities that don’t smile,
Dreaming of color beneath a black-white sky
In the VHS static of their lives.
And i was taught how to splice tapes together,
Just so I could Wizard-Of-Oz myself into a chromaticast lifestyle.
But when I tried, that’s when I learned that
Is the careful art of building borders in an experience,
Just to walk people through its geography,
Call it a story,
And justify all the suffering you go through just to reach the end.
Abraham Ties Rebar
This week, I am screaming the hymnal of a square spade and a gravel pile.
Because a man died, and everyone got tired of people like him dying
By people who wear spades on their chest torn from the shafts of gravediggers,
I scrape the ground. Rip the gravel
I am a shoveler of foundations. I move the stability,
Living in the contradictions, anger
Is an excellent fuel supply. ask my body.
see the ripples of slender meat
As they work, watch me, see the wet of my skin, the perspiration of it all,
The glistening image of my exhaustion pushed forward solely by my anger,
Burying 400 years of children in unmarked graves because
We don’t bury your kind on sacred land.
Our kind is sacred. Not like the sacred
We desecrated, the type we don’t acknowledge.
But the kind of holy-hallelujah-sacred that bolts your childhood out of its dreams like a spade
Sticking out of 75 yards of gravel,
a promise, that you too will go below
If you don’t value the right interpretation of some guy named Abraham,
Who i have never met, but i am sure, knew the promise of a shovel,
Of work, tomorrow, and the fact that someone has to move the dirt
If they want to build something stable
Eight Am in C Minor.
The only dance i fear
Is the one thousands do every morning.
Eight AM drenches us in a fog
Of cigarette smoke,
Portland rain , and Tear stained fear game.
The air, tattooed with apologies.
Fills with sleepy hordes.
They weave in and out of one another
In traffic like fingers between clasped hands
We grip prayers
between palm-sweated steering wheels.
Trust the sleep of a thousand cocked eyes,
Shoulders dropped under work weight,
All frayed and aching.
We’re all just getting by.
Passing from risk to risk.
Hoping we arrive safely
With punctual timing
To the places we don’t wanna be in.
Micah Fletcher is an award-winning poet whose writing appears in NAILED Magazine and other publications. Fletcher lives in Portland, Oregon.