A Howling Dust

The soil here is hard in summer

So i buried my father in a tomb of rocks,

A plot behind st. catherine's church

To lay rest the giilded dream of pitiable men.

With gold found to the north

Quartzburg drove out its whores,

Its foreigners and roughnecks.

They settled this camp.

The mexicans often staged

Bull and bear fights near the bar.

They kept a boy entertained

When there were no hangings to enjoy.

The cantonese flooded the quarries,

Working for less than the whites.

My father would curse the orientals,

Yet came home reeking of opium.

A group of my friends and i

Left to explore the creek.

The chinaman kneeled there,

Gleaning for gold.

We mocked him and pushed him,

I prodded him with my knife.

He gripped his revolver

And fired in the air.

The errant bullet

Ricocheted off a stone

And grazed my leg.

I ran back bawling

To the town.

Mobs

Surround

The crying chinaman,

Father clutching the noose.

Law

Arrived.

The sheriff demanded

That he be jailed and properly tried.

Gangs amassed

Late at night

Outside the jail.

Father led,

Rope in hand,

Prey in his cell.

Smooting lies.

Tempted with

Tobacco leaves,

The chinese

Reached his arm

Through the bars.

The lynch mob swiftly grabbed

The gleaner's exposed hand.

Father wrapped the collar

Aroud his neck.

The horde yanked on the rope.

Chinaman dragged and choked,

His brains dashed upon the wall.

Soon all the gold mines dried

But that blood never did.

Red still stains the jail cell wall.

Father was never tried,

None mourn a foreigner,

But i saw guilt in his eyes.

With all the riches spent,

The people left the town

Yet i stayed to dwell here still.

When father died of drink

I did not weep for him.

I pray the grave unburdens his sins.

I pray that someone will remain

To bury me.

I pray that someone will remain.