Anxious and ancient scratches tore the air
with fingers eager to have their say,
pulling me out of bed, they cast and re-cast
nets of lexicons deep inside the womb
of the river's roaring belly, hauling up myths
born in Georgia and legends sung in Carolina,
the wind howled visions that burned the night.
Wind of April 15, 2007, screeching like knives on fire.
Wind of April 16, 2007, in Virginia 33 counted dead.
Across the wide shoulders of Tybee Island
with thumbnails of exploding waves the wind
typed furiously remembrances of Buddha;
on the aching spines of weeping pines it carved
the bleeding parables of Christ and
and the pleading hadiths of Muhammad,
oh the wind dreamed a dream that haunted the night.
Winds of the moon coughing lunar dust in my face.
Winds of the sun preaching flame down my throat.
What could it be using for ink I wondered,
and opened my window to yell-
"What are you using for ink?!"
A whirlwind of neon alphabets split the dark
wide open and inside its bright fury I saw
one-legged pirates dancing with blind prophets,
I saw kings counting gold and queens telling God.
Wind of dead flowers starving for roots.
Wind of nuclear cockroaches gobbling insanity.
Like a Passover Poet gliding from house to house
and from trembling soul to trembling soul
the wind scribbled sonnets of first time love
and weeping haikus of last hours on earth.
Up and down Broughton Street birds splattered
half-rhymes against windows and over rooftops,
the wind boomed sorrows that raged all night.
Wind of Confederate blood boiling gray miseries.
Wind of black slaves dancing juju jazz charisma.
Snatching me through the window a mighty fist
of air held me and a thousand more upside down
shook our bones like a tambourine of lightning,
wind and thunder and bones rattling cadence
for the sun that had set and the one about to rise,
for hearts pumping life and those about to stop,
the wind wrote a bloodbath too foul to read.
Wind of April 15, 2007, screeching like knives on fire.
Wind of April 16, 2007, in Virginia 33 counted dead.