POETRY
The Hollowman Visits Savannah
Under the long green hair of Candler Oak
I wager is that psychic legit or not could
I be convinced with old Greek teeth or
allured by a young crooked nose and dark hair
I just want something real among the signs
and sigils searching for the Keys of Solomon in
Savannah storefronts near cloudy choppy seawater
would it be tarot or crystal ball tarot seems more
real like gives any old church here a run for its money real
these feelings make me strange with the Atlantic
drizzle feeding the swamps classmates’ faces
look ugly I am alone they judge bandmates’
booty shorts or try to get someone to follow them
to the darkened corner of a pirate breakfast buffet
I want a swashbuckler’s specter to whisper
how death is not in vain
Then, I think You answered a prayer.
It was then You answered two years
later in a pine grove epiphany, five
in a part-time Publix romance, that
night in a Swed screaming in my ears,
“I’m the Hollowman!” Muddy waters
give way to Your new wine, muddy
riffs give way to Holy Ghost fire,
and a muddy mind gives way to
Your name: Revolution, Father,
Yahweh, Death-in-life-with-life-in-death.
I’m the Hollowman.
Alex Hawkins is a writer based out of East Tennessee. His work explores the crossroads of the Holy Spirit, heavy metal, and God’s beauty found throughout the southern United States and the people who live there.
Next (Cody Adams) >
< Previous (Tamara Nicholl-Smith)
Photo is in the Public Domain.
Heart of Flesh Literary Journal 