There are deep drums
pounding in the heart of the nation.
Tribes being conjured
nameless, and faceless
what leads them
A pot pan clattering to a hickory stick
Their Vehemence absolute
no margin for recompence
What heals them
in the streetcalls for an age.
Foes as bloodless, and vicous
Everywhere, condensing...
Wild wild abandon.
Two forever armies marching
outward
ripple Annihilation
Echoes the rin-tin Jubilee
In the eye of nuculear Apocolypse
at dead black center...
The Pot Pan Man
And his hickory stick.
Wandering on Old Laurel street.
Luke Marinac is a resident of Knoxville, Tennessee. He hopes someday he'll give up cheesy poofs and stock his kitchen with organic foods, quit loosing all his socks, and sleep eight hours a night. In the meantime he tries to balance writing poems and short stories with his school work and serving at a local tavern. He's a member of the Knoxville Writer's Guild, and once wrote a poem in third grade that his teacher loved so much she gave him a shiny gold sticker. Ever since then he's devoted his life to writing, and his parents have become accustomed to crying themselves to sleep over this. You may contact him at lukemarinac AT gmail DOT com.