the deafening silence (a psalm to summon sight)

the release of Albert Woodfox

from his forty years

of solitary confinement,

that relentless and unwarranted

spiteful torture

that quarantines and stifles

so many Black Panthers,

ended last week

with the accustomed omission

of the slightest admission

or vaguest hint of apology.

the silence was deafening.

the twin myths of equal justice

in the land of selective personhood

are as shifting and groundless

as the delusional rumours

of democratic intentions

drifting past its bloodied banks

where unrepentant outcasts

lift weary, unruly heads,

treading the savage,

flag waving currents

of foaming, regurgitated hate.

they are bobbing against

the collateral catch of the day,

in the teeming, conscience-fraying nets

of threatening profiles,

zapped, hapless bystanders,

and sundry uncounted

"bad guy" civilians

with their pigments or passiveness,

their peaceful, earthy protests,

indecent indigence,

or sinful feminine parts;

all of the voice-deprived,

inessential children

of a lesser, unprofitable god.

and they drown in the blunted indifference

of America's unique brand

of self-indulgent

arrogant ignorance,

faithfully broadcast

from sea to pitiless sea,

resplendently shining

in the stultifying waves

of exceptional, milky denial.

would that these blithe bombers,

the blinded and boastful

usurpers of homelands

could unravel the patriarchs'

fabled protection,

unscramble their annals

of evasive projection,

and encountering their own

neglected reflection

discover by some
unprecedented miracle

the flickering, recessive remnants

of their hitherto unimagined

quivering humanity.

- Evan Hawthorn, the 26^th of February, 2016

Aquarian birthday

another rebellious, humanitarian Aquarian;
eccentric, fiercely independent,
sharp as the point of a star,
sharing Charles Dickens' birthday.
she was taken from the world,
and its future is dimmer.
but in the land of selective personhood,
nothing was, nothing is, ever done.
so, one must ask,
to America, did she matter?
about as much as the countless,
voiceless victims
that greed and rampant arrogance
kill every single day.

sunlight splinters the spookhouse

[for those unfamiliar with the earlier exploits of "Sludge White and the Seven
Curmudgeons", the mage of mercy refers to Guanyin, the blind hedge witch.
the carpenter is Nate the Woodsmen (who features vaguely in Disney's Grimm
propaganda.)  and Pally, (one of the barmaids in drag from the 'Gimpy Gait'),
who christened the Curmudgeons' cottage 'the spookhouse in the woods', has
recently recovered from witnessing the obliteration of the children of
ByWater Landing, in Their Majesties' drone attack.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

the first rays of sunlight splintered the spookhouse

slanting through windows and skidding under doors,

inciting electrons and dozing dust mites

shedding on surfaces and seeping through pores.

as Elsbeth and the monkey settled in their nooks

snatches of birdsong elated the air.

the mage of mercy released a laden sigh

relaxing the grip on her unruffled chair.

dragging snagged thoughts from the dim rim of memory

raking embers burning out in his head

the scratching at last tugged him to consciousness

and the gentle carpenter sat up in bed.

glancing at the dawn glazing Pally's face,

the hint of placid grace that wasn't there before,

he freed his fingers from their trusting clasp

and gingerly tiptoed across the creaking floor.

it took him a moment to register

the slight, spry figure of Squint the cheeky squirrel,

tucked in his haunches and angling his gaze

absently primping his quizzical curl.

winking from the threshold betwixt his rumpled toes

a small pink tourmaline beamed like a star,

instantly ensnaring Nate's attention

an elliptical omen unearthing a scar.

"good morrow, good fellow."  Squint flapped his tail.

"i'm tendering tidings of a pressing behest."

and pausing to consider Nate's tousled hair

"i entreat your pardon for scratching your rest.

the hedge witch suggests an amulet be crafted,

a flute of white pine to house this fey stone.

'tis a remedy for instruments fell,

dispelling the sundering to which they are prone.

she says if you're willing you ought to get on

for the day holds promise from scant to nary.

the ghost of a chance is nigh upon us

and the fates are grudging to those who would tarry."

weighing the pebble in his calloused palm,

Nate blinked as he pondered the inauspicious drift.

then, shrugging his shoulders he nodded assent,

concealing from sight the seer's peerless gift.

his heady scent amidst the pungent pines,

the scrape of fallen branches culled from the forest

jolted Pally to wake up and wonder

when the fence round their senses came to be porous.

the loftier perspective escorting Weepy

unveiled new depths in his empathic dreams

detecting the children of ByWater Landing

buoying Pally's soul and bursting its seams.

on returning he sensed a tense dissension.

the avian chorus was fringed with shrill strain.

and the dissonance seemed to draw nearer

instilling blithe chatter with its burden of bane.

he hastily donned his battered poncho

and beckoning the otter with gurgling clicks

they rode the heels of retreating shadows

while the self starting candles were still trimming wicks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

- Evan Hawthorn, the 7^th of February, 2016

hyphenation

i've always felt that privilege dwells
in the expected assumption of projected presumption.
the 'we' of our society's designing.
he read "a man was born in a little town."
but he knew already not to expect
that this was HIS story,
that gay, autistic fellow who the police follow
whenever he takes a walk.

the seamless surface

[in this extract from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"

Guanyin,the blind hedge witch from the east, and her attentive apprentice

arrive at the spookhouse in the woods]:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

she took another step on the seamless surface

and the monkey hid his face in his paws;

completely unable to come to grips

with her flat out denial of plausible laws.

he'd done his level best to dissuade her

stretching earthbound maxims as far as they'd extend

but gave up when he noticed the buzzing,

that bee in her bonnet for reality to bend.

so the shivering apprentice dangled

spirited on currents reserved for private flight,

clutching so tightly that his knuckles were numb

to a stringless and sightless, obstinate kite.

though stubbornly cuffing the memory of ground

he was dreading their impending descent.

his sense of balance was rendered uneasy

when breezes abruptly proceeded unbent.

as they angled their way through threaded branches

and the monkey saw his life go zipping by,

a sleepy owl hurled expletives

and a cheeky cicada climbed onto his thigh.

the trees pulled apart, revealing a cottage,

fronted by a garden and flower-draped bier

which the pair of primates neatly avoided

while slightly veering to steer clear of a deer.

and they lightly touched down on the spookhouse stoop

with nary a hitch in Guanyin's striding glide.

wedging a stick for writhing cicadas,

she said "well that's that, then" and blithely walked inside.

- Evan Hawthorn, the 2^nd of February, 2016