An American Poet (Edited)

[Grady VanWright]

By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,
I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.

I hear hymns in train whistles,
tractors groaning blues beneath a corn moon,
neon diners with coffee thick as oil,
waitresses named June,
or something like it.

My vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.

I don’t write;
I plow.
I sing with hands in dirt,
words, like land and hunger, too big for the mouth,
but I try anyway—
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.

One breath:
Chicago’s jazzy shuffle,
horns laughing at the sky.
Next:
swampwater rising,
gators blinking like gods
who forgot their names but not their hunger.

America runs,
spilling its own language—
a freight train screaming,
dreams busted like whiskey bottles,
glass scattered on iron rails.
swept up in a twister—
words flung like seeds,
rooting where they fall.

Isn’t that America?
A fast train screaming toward ideals—
freedom, equality, justice—
never pausing to board its passengers.
It runs empty,
carrying dreams too big for its frame.

I chase that train,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for me to shout:
“All aboard!”

Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.

And yet, I’m no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.
I call for big things,
but my voice splinters
like an echo in a canyon.

What ghost haunts the platform?
His words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
I leap—
Again, missing.