Evan Neiden
We Come To You Now With The Evening News.
a man struck a match in a cemetery the other day
and lit a line of gravestones on fire.
as the flames rose high and candy-cane red,
hand after hand began to burst up from the soil
with skin peeled back and bones like bullets
shoving the waste and worms aside,
reaching for the man with the matchbox.
he was unavailable for comment.
We Come To You Now With The Evening News.
that country is at it again (you know the one),
with its fire and sandstorms and bullets and
lines in the sand – ashen streaks drawn with
candy bars and stray matches and gasoline and
we are at war we are at war we are at
channel seven, stay tuned as this story breaks.
We Come To You Now With The Evening News.
a lady in her nineties picked a flower the other day.
We Come To You Now With The Evening News.
do you remember all the places bullets flew
when you were young, each and every hole
they made; have i got news for you:
they are all gone, each one, vanished, made new
almost as though there were
never
any bullets
at all
so
will
You
Come To me Now With The Evening News.
because as far as i can see, we are at war, and all out of bullets;
they’re hiding in a matchbox, half-buried in the dirt
and some say, if you listen closely enough,
you can still hear him screaming.
i hope i see you one day on the evening news
with that matchbox in your hand
cause after all, we know too well what happens to
the men who set gravestones on fire.
Evan Neiden is an NYC-based writer and performance artist. They make poems out of Jewish folk tales, big band music, childhood synesthesia, black licorice, and wrong numbers.
