(an early Halloween)
Mildred has a gash on her forehead where
the hatchet from her boyfriend split the bone.
Nearby, there is a skeleton hanging by its left
foot from a small maple-oak across the way.
The rail fence is shattered where the van
with thirty-two immigrants went through it
and they got over the earth in a hurry, never
coming back. Above, the blue moon not
the slightest color of blue is more brilliant
than a neon planet made of platinum, brighter
than anything I’ve ever seen on an August night.
Which reminds me, once at 1:30 in the morning
when I was seventeen at Mt. Gretna, out in
the middle of the woods, near a picnic area
drinking stolen beer with other/college kids:
ghostly through the trees…
and a lone, rich baritone voice from Broadway
sang a love song to his lady for the night…
(he’d been Li’l Abner, they said)
no music, the most beautifully romantic thing
I’ve ever heard  —  fifty years later in jail
thinking about it. In the meantime, they put
my bed on the porch roof to be funny… oh, it’s nice
to be the butt of jokes, and the one everyone
hates… seems like, as if to have been born was
to wear some kind of putrid curse around your
face like a necktie for people to piss on, that’s
what it is to be bullied from six to seventeen—
when it stopped, and I pulled the trigger of the
shotgun 14 times where they sat.
[true incident in pieces, but I never shot anybody;
no matter how much I might’ve sometimes wanted to]
Richard Atwood
Born in Baltimore, Rick has lived in Denver and Los Angeles, currently in Wichita, Kansas. He has published three books of poetry, and been published in several literary journals: Karamu, Oberon, Avalon Literary Review, Mochila Review, borrowed solace, Penumbra, ArLiJo, The Raven’s Perch, and Iconoclast among others. He has also authored 3 screenplays, 2 large stage plays; plus an m/m erotic-romantic fantasy, with a GOT ambiance… no supernatural jazz, and a strong moral thread woven throughout (Chronicles of the Mighty and the Fallen, under the name of Richard McHenry).