IF THE TRUTH BE SAID
Patrick Erickson
IF THE TRUTH BE SAID
and static arises
to cause grievances
among the several parties
of a multi-party line
or if a single beam
of fiber optic cable
carries multiple parties
and the resulting static
causes grievances
and sparks fly
and the fire spreads
and if fire trucks are called for
and dispatched
and the firemen stand at the ready
fire extinguishers in hand
don’t be surprised
if you’re the more put out
the more you’re put upon
when the truth is said
and the static grows
and the fire spreads.
WHAT DO YOU EXPECT OF BUTCHERY?
The savvy butcher
does his butchering
at night
and washes up after
so the carnivores
won’t smell blood on his hands
his clothes
his butcher’s apron
or see it stain
his butcher block
and trickle down into the sawdust
on the floor
or pool on the countertop
and coagulate
and ask, “Where’s the beef?”
and have a beef with him
if they can’t have their beefsteak
rare
their roast beef bloody
their hamburger raw
tooth and claw.
I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK
dead set against those
dead as doornails
as those dead as doornails are not dead set
being the doorjamb
the doormen
silent as sentinels
who stand and watch
and spring into action
only when the door is ajar
and there’s a draft
to whom this is
open and shut
another doorknob
another deadbolt lock
another knocker
another hinge
another doorstop
standing on the threshold
knocking.
THE FRAGRANT LAIR
fragrant as lips laid on mine
your lips pale as the moon
and with its sheen
dank as my breath
on your lips
reddening
we roll over
ruddy from love
and fragrant
with its sheen
reddening
reddening with the sun.
WESTWARD HO!
Iron wood
and the iron men
who clear it
for trestles
and for firewood
who lay the track
and man the cattle cars
and the cattle catchers
who catch fire
catching the flak
of a thousand fiery arrows
through and through
To the iron horses, then
and the iron rails
To the iron men who ride them
and the iron wood
and the iron-willed financiers
who finesse them.
+ + +
There is a track
we one-track minds are on
a monorail
through the trackless waste
mined for all its worth
It is an ill wind that blows
that picks up the slack
picking up steam
picking us off
picking us up
and laying us down
so many miles of track bed
without recourse
to a third rail.
About the Author:
Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Grey Sparrow Journal, Cobalt Review, and Burningword Literary Journal, among other publications, and more recently in The Main Street Rag, Wilderness House Literary Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Right Hand Pointing, and Danse Macabre.
