Voodoo Machinegun in Dminor

This is an older poem from 2006 that  I am periodically working on.

Voodoo Machinegun in Dminor.

New trail of tears,
mark minaret skies
with chemical lines-
child’s face
married to death,
dust, sand
at roadside
New Cherokees
old world
worn & cracked blankets-
Grand Old Republic of Fever-
Technologically precise
Alchemies.

Sometimes childern wake up
wrapped in televised screams.

There are no more
sweet shotgun nostalgias-
no Mom
no apple pie
unless Mom is found
to be
baked inside
the delicately
flaky crust
like some black
& white
creature feature
1957
cannibal surprise.

Here we bleed real, like
Norman Rockwell on a cross.

Throw out
your plastic dashboard
Jesus.
Man,That god
won’t work here
Light the candle.
Howl Kaddish.
Run like hell.
Cold African water.

Starving
hands grow up
like grass
as green
as cash-
or yellow
dandelions
in the front yard,
flowers with chalked
outline
of brown dinge –
roots run deep,
It doesn’t matter
whether hands
are at your plate,
or weeds weave themselves
at your door.

War your meat real.
Tear cellophane away
& feel
iced old
chicken blood
drizzle down
wrists.

This sings ancient-
This drums
the father’s…
mother’s
faith…

Electric nox.

Look deep
with dirty hands-
reds, browns,
green.

Keep your meat real-
“Welcome to Karbala.and
keep your head down.

                      -Seti I Shadim

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