The Poetry Of.
Steve De France...............................................
VOO DOO CHICKEN
It is an average night to be a devil or a vampire.
At 10:00 P.M. on All Hallows Eve,
a night mist gathers at sewer openings
& the reflected moon seems quite pale.
Behind every Col. Sanders in America
something scratches & stirs in garbage bins
all across the land.
A Voo Doo Chicken dance
macabre is about to begin. . .
Opening measures for the dance are triggered
when the 13th million chicken thigh is eaten.
First, there is a soft ghostly fluttering of wings,
followed by a deep & mournful clucking sound.
Then. . . the air grows dense—
flies fall from the sky---as half gnawed bones
begin to rattle & clack together.
They twist & reassemble themselves into the
shape of a chicken's skeleton----and soon
they start to move—often missing a wing
or having to drag a broken claw.
These unwholesome fowl gather in the shadows
near Col. Sanders exits.
A customer sees a shadow---then another—and begins
to panic---a skeleton trips this customer
spilling chicken parts in the parking lot.
The patron scrambles up on his knees
then the resurrected chickens
attack in force---clawing, squawking
fighting their way into the hungry guest's mouth
crawling down throats
finally to lodge in a deadly place.
AT 8:15 THE FOLLOWING MORNING
The city detective looks at the bones
arranged like letters next to the 6 bodies:
R E V E N G E O F D R A C U L A
He smiles and drinks his coffee & watches as
the bones are dusted for fingerprints.
He is glad he is not superstitious.
Otherwise he might be looking for a
God damn----vampire!
The detective laughs, pulling a chicken
bone from off his ankle where
it appears to be stuck.
THE WATCHER
As I write this poem.
He watches
Perplexed---he lifts his unremarkable
hand to his forehead.
Sweat
glistens at his temples.
Eyes penetrating---yet cool.
Amused.
Expectant---but not expectant.
To hell with him.
I start my poem---
The Hohokum Indian Tribe.
Nomads.
High plains drifters.
Covering the ground like leaves
drifting away with the seasons.
A dig in Tucson, Arizona..
My guide an antediluvian female
describes how the scattered mounds
on the ground are really ancient garbage sites.
The Hohokum threw things, "artifacts,"
out of wigwams, or out of mound doors
onto a great civic pile, until it was time to move.
She smiles through her fist of a face.
"Then, they'd pack up the old,
the young, the sick, and pull-out
the whole village." She laughs.
That night I am drinking cactus liquor,
writing the part where the Indians
burn-out and kill a Mexican rancher and wife,
when suddenly, the Watcher in the wooden
chair walks over and stares at what I've
written. He rubs his hand across his
eyes. There's more sweat at his temple.
He walks back to the chair, stares
through the windowpane without expression.
He's getting on my nerves.
I continue to make the poem.
The following morning--- crisp and cold.
The reservation so icy it stings my lungs.
The smell of old land
is everywhere.
Moldy.
My body aches from this slow
transport of time.
All my bones sore from the cold.
I drive the Government streets
lined with tract houses. Row after row.
More stockades than homes.
Curious brown eyes follow me
past abandoned pick-ups, rusted washing
machines, twisted piles of government
refuse, melting on lawns. Modern Indians
throwing modern artifacts from government houses.
Everything's worn, burnt or dying except for these
new stucco dwellings that ignite the tan dessert
with bright rebellious and insane colors.
I'm about to connect past
with present,
when the Watcher stands
and repeats
the word
"Why,"
flatly---several times.
I've begun to doubt myself.
Still I continue the poem.
It's noon, but still cold.
I'm out of my car in a dirt parking lot,
the Watcher sits in the front seat,
he doesn't seem to move at all.
We are parked next to an Indian Casino.
A huge sign hangs over the
door: B I N G O T O N I G H T.
It's the finest building on the reservation.
I consider the notion that a certain amount
of debris gathers at the edges of every human dream.
At length, the Watcher
angered by what I had written, springs
out the car window, and cat-quick catapults
into the encroaching darkness.
As I watch him leave---fold this poem
into the shape of a memory.
WALTER MITTY DIDN'T
WRITE THIS
I sat at the kitchen table with fried eggs before me.
I studied a frisking robin on the other side
of the French window glass.
Head bobbing, breast brushed red, eyes alive
with the possibilities in the garden.
Had he evolved from a snake?
Were his feathers merely scales?
Was he simply a more evolved pterodactyl?
For a moment I lapsed back into time--until
I sat beside an ancient fire pit next to my cave.
Still--- I watched the robin—he was bigger--yes
his bright beak more adapted to the tearing of flesh.
Across time measured in centuries, I had watched the bird.
Thinking only of his capture and the taste of his flesh.
Dragging a burning fire torch from the pit, I advanced on him.
He was taller than me and his beak & breast
were covered with spatters of blood from his prey.
"Well," Francine whined in her east coast twang,
"the eggs are stone cold---are you going to eat them, or not?"
"Yes, I am eating them," I replied.
"Well," she said, "both the light and gas bills went up.
Are you paying attention?" "Uh-huh," I said.
"I had to pay 60 dollars to fill up the Mini-Van.
The Arabs are ripping us off."
"I see," I said.
I stared back out the window into Amin's eyes
"Someone," he said, "is going to have to go in.
It won’t be easy, they will be expecting trouble."
"It's got to be done," I said, strapping on my 9 millimeter automatic.
"I will take out Prince Abdar—the absence of his vote
at OPEC will lower the price of Oil in North America.
We shook hands. "Go with Allah?" said Amir..
"Are you eating these damned eggs or not?"
shrieked Francine, "you don’t get it, do you?"
I grunted quizzically.
"You don't understand there is a war out there.
Prices are sky high."
I shoveled cold eggs into my mouth.
War is it? Well, if it’s war they want, it's war they’ll get.
"Colonel."
"Yes my general."
"We must attack from all fronts.
To hell with the weather.
Bring in the fifth armored division.
We must have a break through.
"But this could be suicide, my general."
"Failure is not an option. We must be victorious!"
The Colonel snapped a salute.
V
Francine slammed her plate down,
"Do you have any idea what the cost of cat food is?"
I turned to her and said, "I am sorry to report
the cats were killed at 1600 hours
in a hostile action at the Iraqi front."
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