INFRASTRUCTURE NIGHT

Every Day’s a Rorschach Test

Elementary school art class,
we douse string in tempera paint.
Fold our paper in half and yank
colorful cords. Each blot named:
mine a reptilian B-movie monster,
scary with scaly hide, fangs
met with the art teacher’s frown.

Now, I drag my twine
across fresh paper – another pull
to mystify my outlook.
Like a tattoo – not inked
like Mom or What’s-her-name –
but of me, the blemish,
Creature of the Dark Confusion.

Dunking cords into colors,
hands stay messy:
expectations more smeared.
I try to redefine each botch,
identify each blotch,
but art teacher’s sour specter
still hovers with conviction.

I concede imperfections,
thinking one day
Whatever it Might Be
can be loved – visual aid
to reshape uncertainties
after my threads, pangs
pressed together, are pulled.

Infrastructure Night

3rd shift welders arc I-beams into fireworks. I navigate
a small cosmos where my mind is bonded to the 8 to 5 –
the legendary schedule. Streetlights gild parking lots
and frail trees. A haven jack-hammered by thermal-panel
buildings, ornamental brick walls. Bedazzled by this pageant
of shiny objects, my chin rests on the steering wheel.

Out of downtown, crude buildings and dead factories
firm up each glitch. A newspaper vendor's faithful apparition
hawks the early edition. He markets fresh memoirs, proclaims
the firstborn of the dead. My eyes curve to asphalt's weaving peril.
Boulevards devolve to number streets, then avenues, then lanes.
Infrastructure ensures the sun, but belies personal victories.

I cannot shield myself as oblivion’s slander takes root, abandons
witnesses robbed of conviction. Fault-lines within reach, I cling
to my muscled claims, invocations ever-present. Night's edge
never clear cut – still a sturdy land to repel invasive questions –
its sanctuary shunts hymns of grief, tonight's psalters reach
for high-notes. I drive over lonely gully bridges. Last membrane

of blue horizon silvers. Stoked with old newsprint, my warm hearth
kindles grim splendor, aware each evening escorts tomorrow's eviction.
A word here. A blank page there.
How have I misplaced another day?
Admirable grit ground further. I coddle the keystone myth
that sunup will buttress my corners. Left to wager my troves

of bone and hot tea for healing, I postpone outrage.
My calendar
thins, and I reprise next steps. Realize no refrain of protest
will save green trees – loosened and shaken astray, leaf by leaf,
colorful fables falling over the high wall. I hunger to adapt
when daylight fractures, a hairline at first.

A Romantic’s Murder Ballad

A scrim of dew. A pepper of flies. Reminders of pulses
lit by magic when I believed we were a field of light.

Hummingbirds skim Magellan zinnias – red alchemy
opening veins of love. Monarchs ignore such sparks.
Sallow sky mute. My gust of regret. Chevron of geese

overhead, chorus of wings sprocketing toward a heaven
they freely serve. Crickets vault stem to stem, and bees suckle
clover’s white blisters with diligent tongues. We – as last
of our kind – should be confident to hopscotch black holes,

reclaim enchanted midnights when we splashed our faces.
Anything to refresh devotion, and let desire flex its muscle.
Take a fierce fight to the heart’s laden chambers, armed
with a pocket-full of confetti. Risk as soundtrack, shoulders back,
we pull out stops, march favorite acres without restraints.

Thrash melody into a pleasing tune from a rampant drum
pleading savage messages from beyond unfriendly hills.
I do not fear scandal, and detest idleness. Read my brave
flesh as I yours: consent to spells of primal truth.

Conjure astute faith and visions of forever. Bodies static
for the clabber of harsh answers. Release pale wrists
and repeat vows. I stare, our legs woven, meditative posture

into the glare of a last chance to make it right – my sour heart
beseeching between lovely raindrops and wildflower sway.

Go West, Young Man

Brown leaves piled, withered combatants
in either wind or stillness. Let it stay winter here.
A season to slice hard lemons, rend bruised fruit.
I shall travel to a bright region, one fashioned
to conquer the lurch of these city's streets.

My rear view will unburden, not allow others
to reassign our old defeats new breath. Bid adieu.
No doubling back. Abandon this grime –
clean distance invites, unbound with light.
Desire defines the existing horizon –

Accompany me, Love, to a paradise where
our happy dance stomps detractors. Disregard
old petitions compressed in rock, frozen in amber.
Ignore yesterday's crisscrossed seams. Let us
gallop shoulder to shoulder. Kiss my eyes

so I know you love me. We will imbibe
the happy hour blaze. Tongue the whetstone
before each salute. Recognize each toast counts.
Let our new dig's glitz cling like mica glitters in dust.
Take brisk walks. See sun sparkle in our soft palms.

In sunny sun, melodies flood us. Moonlight adores us
as we dance across wet grass when shadows lend music.
We can be there to croon a blessing. One day renew
the next, healing sadness along the way.
Rain will always be spring rain.

Open Wing

Winter birds stop at their precinct's edge.
Claim no more than full-throated song.
Creek-bank fossils exhumed in this drought.
Reflection's cruel depth. Scrawls of ruin.

I cannot disregard layers and lineage threaded
on memory's loom. Resolve's brave blade.
Seventh Heaven a stitch bled onto satin.
The reckless and wicked scar recall's you –

siren refrain cannot soothe your wounding.
Delightful wisp does not smooth the scar.
Anguish lurches in a curve, rabid and real.
Bridges charred, one way, two-lane alike.

Islands = continents. Seas = oceans.
So long, farewell. Come again, go-to-hell.
Look back, smell the beautiful smoke:
primitive litter of reminiscence.

I wander under a canopy of autumn leaves,
branches suffering loss – perfected passage
in riots of color. A barren aviary where
I learn bitterness never flies far.

Sam Barbee has a new poetry collection, Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. Also, Uncommon Book of Prayer (2021, Main Street Rag) which chronicles family travels in England. His poems have appeared recently in Poetry South, Salvation South, and upcoming in Cave Wall and, among others; plus on-line journals Dead Mule School of Literature, Streetlight Magazine, American Diversity Report, Grand Little Things, and Medusa’s Kitchen; and is a two-time Pushcart nominee.