Green – By Anna Owens

Green is the color of new money
Hoarded by the man in the beautiful, bespoke suits
Green like his eyes that entice and entangle everyone
In his web of lies
He said Wall Street works for the wealthy,
Churning out more cash than what’s healthy
He is the operator, instigator of the financial avalanche
On the trusting, unsuspecting civilians
All for his material advance and advantage
His eyes are green-
Upon closer inspection:
Of the pondscum variety,
Not a model’s in a magazine
Eyes that don’t blink,
Don’t move from the stock ticker
He’d sooner shoot someone
Than take his eyes off that ticker
His trades are quick, not a hint of a flicker
In his eyes as blood courses thicker,
Heart beats quicker
He was the mentor,
Creator of this glass world, first to throw stones
If you have anything, it’s what he already owns,
This bearer of nothing
Though he was a class act,
He was blind to everything but green-filled dreams
They wrapped around his brain,
Suffocated him until his name became only
IPO, Nasdaq, Dow Jones
Doling out ill-advised loans, snatching back homes
Cuts more corners than a Koch brother
Does more than just coke, brother
Because God will bring deliverence
He prays to God, he is a god
Green bills, new money
Nig business is his goddess
When he chops lines, in God he trusts
“Can’t let them get ahead of us”
He’s a pink slip, a penny stock,
Not like the other kinds
His green eyes blind,
Masquerading in a sea of blue chips
Prestige just beyond his fingertips
Raising hell on the top floor,
This distant god hellish to the very core
He’s the top of the pyramid,
Amid the fiscal shift
Because he has this gift,
This love of money
This green that makes the world go round
He’s Ponzi in this game of “Trumped up tickle down”
It’s just simple economics,
Fill them with fear that periodic,
Bull or bear, he swears he’ll get more
This provoking broker in a constant
State of war

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Love in Middle America

Love in Middle America
By Anna Owens


Welcome, visitor, to the Heartland
Get rid of your progressive ideas beforehand,
Here cows and corn outnumber humans
But there is also a more dangerous version:
The land of suburbs and Christian subversion


A white picket fence
And manicured lawn
Are the worst offender’s defense
Against the neighbors


They met on a park bench
He was the corporate executive
She was the beauty queen
Who never got to be on the silver screen,
Ideal to quench his desire
For all things dainty and decorative


After the wedding day,
The marriage is made
Of futile prayers
“I love you”
Is bitter, lethal,
Deadly nightshade


The sufferer is always
The trophy wife
Outside, she sparkles
But inside, in the dark,
He makes her talk with
The point of her own butcher knife


There is one use for her body,
And it is not living
There is one use for her mouth,
And it is not speaking


Jesus watches blankly from the wall
Nothing slips past the husband’s calculating eye
He sees all:
What she eats, when she speaks
Limbs limp and splayed,
Destroying her is child’s play


She wears his bruises like a necklace
Left breathless by his hands


Dark circles beneath her eyes
A tremor in her hands


She can barely stand
Scratches line her thighs


He wears a suit to church,
Shaking hands and lining collection plates
She sits beside him, narrow, delicate


At a party, she serves him dinner,
Her blood, sweat, and tears,
While she grows thinner
He’s drunk, but it doesn’t matter:
He doesn’t need to be sober
To decide her skull needs to be shattered


He drives home, swerving
Again, it’s dark and she conserves
Her breath for later
Again, he unlocks the door
And knocks her down,
Whiskey spilling on her evening gown


His vision swims, but he still sees all
Jesus watches blankly from the wall
But tonight she is the crucifix
Yielding to his relentless kicks


It is her blood
That floods and pools on the floor
She implores him,
Only to be met with his relentless roar


She sneaks out with a bag,
Gets on the bus
There’s no more trust
For a man who makes her
Wipe her blood off the floor with a rag


He finds a new park bench
And a pretty brunette
She doesn’t know what she’s in for yet


He supports her as she stumbles
Latches the fence and locks the door,
He sheds his suit coat
And becomes a carnivore


He has a third eye,
So nothing slips by
But her worthless pleas


He makes her talk
With the threat
Of the old butcher knife


There is one use for her body,
And it is not living
There is one use for her mouth,
And it is not speaking
His blows echo through the hall
Jesus tumbles from the wall,
Hands heavenward in a spiraling fall


Holy porcelain explodes on the floor
This one wasn’t lucky enough
To get to the door