VOICES FROM THE FIRE:David O’Nan

Crossing Your Legs at the Church in Wasson

A night of pistols shot throughout the town. Can’t you hear?

Can you hear them?  People falling to the ground, without homes.

“Diseases, they’re out there?” No, Just keep listening to your preacher

Jars full of money.  Tips to the lord.  Tips to the bank accounts of

The slick haired boys that run this town.  Identify as Pentecostal.

Funny how your view of 3 in 1 and yet you have as many personalities as a broken mirror.

There is a whispering going around town. That you’re planning a big get together.

Let’s keep this in Wasson.  Invite all the attraction.  Sing away the rain.

The money is wedged in our bibles. And we hymn about the snake.

And we shake in unison.  Convulse then pray.  “Soon we’ll be healthy. No longer

In wheelchairs or watching certain cable news”   Just keep this with us & God.

Until the politics shows come on.  Then maybe we can get an idea that maybe hey idolatry isn’t

All that bad.  “Hey, praise umm…ummm…ummm”

Can’t finish the sentence so you just hum.  Until your narcissism shines through,

 and the women keep their hair long and cross their legs in the church. Then go home and

Listen to goldmine preachers belch out some new abuse.

This small-town world is fading away, and starting to believe you haven’t sacrificed anything

except your faith and reliability. 

When one of yours is dead.   When the promises you made weren’t met.

You just drive to your pulpit on another Sunday and tell the nursing home that all of

Our elderly will be taken care of and radio silence.

So sing sing sing…sing away the rain.

Shake….shake…shake for whoever you’re truly shaking for?

While the town is full of your victims.  The night of pistols. The falling people and

The endless coughs.  Soon you’ll be wondering where is all the spare change?

Old Boss on Friday

On a morning that brewed the dust

A flock of geese flew over the trees

Above your militia hut

You’re the sore,

An enabler of war

The captain to a whipping shore

All your people scare of your stare.

You act the part of a corruptive clown

Everyone believes your lies

The genius that you say you are

You have bought your charm

Like a violation of the Hatch Act.

The women you swoon

The same way you puncture their heart,

At the end of a bloody moon

Leaving it pale.

In a sinister snort of your “sugar dirt”

You claim you have paved the way

The gifts of your smile

And the guns you pack

Doesn’t always make for a friendly holiday.

Vacations with strangers

On some pompous waters that you claim as your own

Wicked and paralyzing

You tell the young blondes what they want to hear.

Promotions, Promotions, Promotions.

A raise will come, follow me like the fading sun

And you will be rewarded with the bed of gold

And enfold you in my shield.

shhhh…keep your mouth shut,

Sign away your clarity for new fears

The Captain is a burning room,

full of many wardrobes and burning perfumes,

Come with me in this hideaway scene

In the glossy ghetto murdered by rain

See you there in your anxious fear

He laughs and makes you his comic book brain.

You are not ripe anymore

Too wrinkled and sour

Your politics too dire to his ideal

Pulling away, from his constraint

He’s got piles of red hats and snake flags.

Packing to the rallies and the stores.

And you are now just a wish

elimination from your freedom

The flight skidding into a slavery war

Pumping at your brakes

Now your mind is an earthquake.

And your solidity as a king on Tuesday breaks down

Like the skeleton of a storm

Broken branches driven over by squealing tires

Streetlights fade on your cocaine parade

And your midas hands begin to fail

Your mid-life crisis begins to feel more permanent.

By Thursday, you’re the talk of the scene.

The words don’t come out easily,

You’ve been pawned and left raw.

Those paisley shirts and Raybans can’t hide your lies

And false charms,

What is secure?

When the floor has been swept away from your feet?

The week will not lay down like a lady at your beckoning dream

DENIED in red ink!

Remove and brush away

Clouds spit out the greenish hue for you,

the Old boss on Friday.

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