Ode to Materialism (Willie Soniat

Ode to Materialism (Willie Soniat - Baton Rouge, LA)

Once my father taught me what kind of man he is
In words said in an offhand conversation,
One which he probably doesn’t remember.
He was asked what makes a man
And I standing to his side
with my fairytale filtered ears
And comic book colored eyes
Looked to him expecting the words by which I would build myself.
I expected the grand speech that Ben gave Peter
When he told him of power and responsibility,
That Robert gave Virgil
When he told him the color of his actions,
I wanted him to place his hand on his chin
And hesitate to answer,
Finding the words profound enough to make superheroes.
But he did not hesitate
He simply grew a whiskey tethered smile
and yelled his next words like a man at Mardi Gras
I’m Materialistic.
He explained how he cared about what he wore
He flaunted what he could buy
He worked hard on the grind
For the all the glitters of gold chains
And jeweled rings
He wanted the best truck,
The best clothes,
The best house
with the best foods in the fridge
He said he was materialistic
and he was proud of it.
My father said he was a man of his possession
I am older now
Taller than him now
I no longer live in my father’s nice house now.
Nor do I eat the good food in the fridge.
I don’t expect anything from him anymore
He’s trying to talk to me more
Though I don’t see it in speech bubbles anymore
Usually explaining advice he forgot to tell me growing up
And saw me do so in the reflection of his shiny truck.
He gave me one of his gold chains
One that didn’t fit the very next week
He said that’s my fault
I grew up too fast.
I still remember that day
The words probably said by a man to drunk at a party
But that day
My father taught me what kind of man he was.

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

Lunatic (Lily Lechler - New Orleans, LA)

“Lunacy” comes from the moon, Who cycles through brilliance and darkness Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed Opposites not so well harnessed Who cycles through brilliance and darkness? The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Opposites. Not so well harnessed As she thought, her brain gives reason the slip The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Her body, depressed, her thoughts manic. As she thought, her brain gave reason the slip And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic. Her body depressed her thoughts. Manic Lunacy comes from the moon And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed

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