Dan Hintz

Afternoons Playing Wet Cards

the piano drapes itself on the streets
I could hear it each day when I walked
down the Plaza de Bolivar
and she echoed
the same space at home
only there was an absence of cars
and in the mountains
it was the scream of dying pigs
down in the barrios that lulled me to sleep
during the days I worked
and coming past the
Montania de Brujas
I found a puppy shivering
on the side of the road
I was given permission to keep it
it was the same day I saw seven dead kittens
later, a man
he was shot in the head
there was a flower in his truck
a little girl was sitting in the heat
staring
the puppy was sold to a fat welder
to fight in the pits
he didn't want to go
I tied a flower to his collar
and came home to a dead garden
she held me, she loved me
I believed
and there were days
clicking away on an old typewriter
I sliced my fingers on a word
and bled
until I left the country
 
 
 
 
Martin Hintz

Wedding Dance

Joe the Bohemian farmboy from Protivin
Sucking on his Schlitz dreamed that
Nancy was his woman blonde and warm
Oh he had ached with the hope
Even though she said she belonged to
Frank Meier he was that German bruiser
from Little Turkey way dad owned 870 acres east
All prime bottomland God-thick with corn
But Joe didn't care much about that
When he rabbit-punched the smug Dutchie
sonofabitch outside the Legion Hall
In that Lawler streetlight polka night
Forehead grew purple flowers under the crying stars
Jeezus Christ Joe all he wanted was
To clear up the bad blood between you
She screamed veiled as Meier drained
Away like sick warm beer
It wasn't his wedding said the deputy
Never will be
 

When The Horses Came

Charlie used to stand in the middle of the pasture
The one that edged down from the winding road
Fronting the low frame house
He'd just stand there, the white-haired old man
And the horses would gallop to him
Thundering across the field that led to the waters of
the Crane
Through the low creek, they'd come
Hurrying, manes flying, scattering the bullheads
Wet hooves then scrambling up the bank, racing
across the grass
Clustering around him
Unicorns led by Pegasus, all cloud creatures with
crimson nostrils
Flaring with hot, pumping breath
Thickly calloused from garden tending, his fingers
Tickling softly their ears
Touching their souls, whispering friend messages
only they understood
Still kids, we looked up at them all— giants: man and horses
Our hearts shaking from the stampede, kind of scared
On those Sundays when the horses came
 
 
 
Loren Baum

She Was Flame

She was a golden flame to me that night,
Red as the fire upon a hearth on a cold night.
All was still when she began to dance,
As the licking flame dances.
Slowly at first she twisted her body, as though hungry,
Just as the growing flames twist and lick outwardly
and hungrily.
Her body was a living pillar of fire
Covered with the flowering glitter of a million sparks,
Turning, twisting, tossing,
As if in agony, and yet, caressing.
From the flaming red you were changed to a
sinister green,
A flame of poison, of treachery and of lust;
A flame one might expect to find
Creeping among the forest giants
to kill them while they slept;
A poison as choking as the gas from which you spring;
And the lust call dripping from every movement of
your lithe body.
And then to the silver flame,
A flame when only the moon is high in the heavens
A sparkling, gleaming flame, reaching upward,
While silver glitterings fall at your feet;
Then suddenly to turn and play with them,
Lightly, laughingly,
Until the shining call of the moon beckons,
And you seek to answer
With all the power of your silvery form.
 

Gods Were Dancing

After seeing Ted Shawn and his men dancers
Gods were dancing that night,
Gods with bodies of bronze,
Gods with muscles of sinewed steel;
Gods were behind the magic footlights,
Dancing as only gods can dance.
Slow, stealthy, sly, sinewy movements
Like those of a jungle cat stalking its prey,
Or like the gay leaping of a fawn.
These gods danced;
And the great machines stopped in awe
and amazement
And asked,
"Can these things be more wonderful than we?
Do they dare to do what we cannot do?"
And the white-faced men worshipped
in silent wonder,
Worshipped at the feet of the bronzed gods
Who dared to do what the ancient gods
of long ago did
These were real gods to worship,
Gods of flesh, blood, laughter, gaiety and beauty—
Not the false gods of wealth,
Swift-moving machinery,
The hated gods of war,
And the petty gods of creed.
More wealth, beauty and religion were found
in one golden hour,
Found and passed on by these gods,
than could have been gained by an eternity
of speech, writings, explanations.