Ageless Issues
from natural springs
The first placenta pardoned sweet
water through mother’s earth canal
onto thirsty feral parchment.
A natural spring preened velvet green
clusters tickling sweet gum toes,
and spit-shined flint-flaked remnants
etched into sojourner missteps whisked
away on the current. Errant time
traveller tracks not yet held to account
were foot-washed unto salvation.
I stood hushed inside the terminus seeking
truth, and ponderd mysteries entrusted
to ageless artesian Samaritans summoned
by holy men. There, I wet the nib
of my hopes in quenching second chances,
and absolved solace of mortal restraint.
The Fountain of Youth
The ghost of Juan Ponce de Leon
possessed the serpentine tongue
of a python. It told the Moorish
tale of an everafter fountain
along the River Euphrates
in The Garden of Eden beside
the tree of good and evil, formed
by strange tides and divers tidings,
where scarlet parrots cleanse
their plumes in the refilled Cup
of Christ and splash Templar
wine on red flamingos panning
for watercress at Alexander’s
well. There, forbidden fruits dine
on carnal flesh without conviction,
and fabled springs extend the life—
of each inquisitor.
Westward Ho!
Sodbusters burrowed in Mississippi
mud and found comfort on the backs
of True People. The brittle dead fingers
of Custer’s Elm branch splintered
wanderdust into dream seeker eyes.
Peyote pricks from a cactus rose thorn
grafted trances onto sage seer visions:
hinting moonlight glints through
a bullsnake’s reflection; sidewinding
snips at the nib of an owl. Deer antler
tips neath a rolling flint hill flaked
the frontier edge of an oak grove cusp.
Lies and tall tales agreed to split hairs
on the gist of a small Kansas town.
Roman Nose
Nephilim fell to Mount Olympus
and sired her a warrior son.
Through halcyon days on phoenix
wings swaddled warm in fox fur.
Principle god of prairie wars
sent to stir the great Cheyenne
and let the squatter vein. His talisman:
a Spencer carb, breech-clout lashed
to four six guns. A compound bow
drawn near to splinters; sentried
at the left hand. Where legends legion
he lingered long beside Platte water
counting coup. His blood-tipped nose:
a Roman lance; to preen the blue
in yellow eyes, and snipe the aim
from soldier awe.
The Godfather’s Soul
James Brown died with his cape
on. God cast him in bronze, booked
into a night gig on Broad Street;
where re-glazed burnt sugars sweet
roll johns’ dough in crack-alley pink
cadillacs, and homies sift dust
on the hood. They tend ‘The Father’s’
soul for a blessing and spit shine
his brass with crepe myrtle dew,
then deal salvation to pimps
and pisspot prophets with gold
lamé teeth, while baby mamas
suffer their little children to rap
a few beats wit ‘Da Man.’
Pushcart Prize nominee Kevin Heaton was born in Kansas, and now lives and writes in South Carolina. His fascination with history and love for the outdoors have led him on a journey to better understand life beyond the city limits. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 150 publications, including: Raleigh Review, Foundling Review, The Honey Land Review, and elimae. His fourth chapbook, Chronicles, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in early 2012. He is a Best of the Net 2011 nominee.
