Poem: Encounters with the Fathers | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
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Poem: Encounters with the Fathers 

It’s like the Koreans
When they were coming
Over the hill with sticks
And you’re sitting there with a
Machine gun
But after a while
You know
The barrel melts and they just
Keep coming
And their sticks are sharp tongues
Honed on their yellow wasp teeth
On greenbacks on (power)
And I don’t need to tell you
How their hearts have ossified
Decades ago like dead bones
Without any more of those little veins
or nerves
Just little holes like the underside
of a Boletus
But without the flavor the deep
Earthen feeling just dust
And its like everyone
With that shape-shifting machine gun
I don’t care who you are
Or where you are from
Is just a scared little
Terrified little child inside
Scared because they should be too
But they have sticks
And the sticks don’t ever go away
They just dry out
Into knobbed lengths
With jagged edges
Like broken dead bones
In the dry creekbed
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