The ambulance drivers in this town have no clocks
in their homes. Instead, the kitchen tables bear
sandbags and bean cans
and old issues of Playboy.
Iodine adorns the night stand.
Outside, my father’s hands chill to purple,
his veins verge on black, and I
The doctor shrugs, but passes me a prescription
and a pamphlet anyways.
This happens twice and I get better.
Hundreds of feet above,
vultures throw a cocktail party
in honor of new warlords. Here,
nothing lasts long on the
side of the road.
I stay on the train just a little
longer, aware of the rumbles
and ticks. He’s the only one
who eats pizza with a fork,
catching pepperoni like
treetops catching kites.
Some days, I imagine God
as an old woman feeding the ducks;
her arm quivers into the bag of bread pieces
she broke yesterday and swings
out over the moss-laden pond. She smirks,
her cracked lips like blood diamonds.
Blake Pipes is currently a senior undergraduate student at Belmont University in Nashville, Tennessee. Blake enjoys watching bad horror movies, blasting hardcore punk, and taking long walks to Taco Bell. Blake has had three poems featured in two different Belmont University publications and won the first place prize for the 2015 Sandra Hutchins’ Humanities Symposium Writing Award in Poetry.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.
The things I never said, I said them like a man.
Like a man I insist I never said those things.
And afterwards I will assert I never said the second thing,
layer on layer of vow, disavowal. And what I believe,
you shall believe; there is only one thought and it is me.
My smell wipes across the thought of him. Crying in a pin stripe business suit. There was an accident. Perfect bodies lose perfection like melting ice. Crowns of thorns are passed out, metal trinkets to place in private. Kiss the blood rolling down.
I keep having this dream where
the white man isn’t angry
the black man entered
the white house.
There is a cabin by the bouldered beaches
of Northern California,
where the pines practically toe the foam.
This is where he’ll go, and off will come
his tailored suits,
his lacquered shoes,
his streak of blood-red tie.
She’s been sitting in the passenger seat of my car for a week.
She won’t wear her seatbelt and she won’t come in at night.
We are the easy targets
to the men who hide behind
the thin veil of life
the men in Washington
who pretend that they care.
It’s nice to scream
“This is what democracy looks like”
With a hundred people you’ve never met before.
Of course we knew what was at stake.
We all had that pill between our teeth
the gelatin cap
would not burst
no matter how hard we bit down