Miami Poets chapter
State Poets Association
New Orleans Manager
Whomever comes from the East
to mishandle hometown wares,
scatters my family and friends
like bargain basement garments
then walks out. A petulant patron
plundering orderly outlets ought
to know I am pissed because my
sale rack is all shambles and needs
help to set it right. The manager
thinks this overwhelming mess
is not his affair unless profits
plunge in my division hence he
pampers high end stuff where
big ticket items live in spacious,
well-lit, rosewood cases. Alone
I fold and sort past working hours
in hot, dark hovels so that morning
sees semi-ordered spaces. Advise
my apathetic manager that wrecked
racks require assistance to restore.
At press conferences
Double'yuh maims to to tuh and that America
is merely for start'uhs.
A crimson crucified Santa is
gallowed upon a Ficus branch.
Feet tied, eyes blindfolded, arms
artily bound, he poses for nosy
newsmen to film this life-sized,
sermonic saint. Hark apocalypse,
your sensational story lacks irony.
Puffy facts, Tele bets, will vex
vigilant eyes of right-wing minds.
"We'll shatter dissent's window
panes, burn holy symbols on its
lawn, stage sit ins," off-air voices
shout, "This sinful house boards beastly
bane, rude blasphemy, public betrayal—
we want wise-guys purged from within."
At our live scene, "US freedoms support
a landowner-right to deck his home
so childly wrong, "a local lady relates.
"I think this guy's PO'd at hell-hole
war, prisoner crucifixion, our lands'
cupidity, its wild corruption. Noosed
there," she points, "a seasonal symbol
to effigize fuel we burn buying faith in
self-destruction's finite marketplace."
A divorced, wiry-haired harlot fixed
tuna salad sandwiches unseen by our
camera eye. Her soldier son sailed for
Cat Quay yesterday on a catamaran
for a lasting leave from Iraq and home
after Santa's midnight hanging. Ought
morality move a wealthy granddad to
withhold offspring's offshore upkeep?
An empty gift-home where pay back
hangs will get kangarooed as stand-in
dissident for one drained grandson and
angry mom basking in Bahama breezes
far from querying gossip-lenses
and rabid-zealot revenge. Mom
feeds hand-gathered conch from
Morgon's bluff to a son's split spirit.
Her aiding dad bribes brutal busy-
bodies for stateside safety—wise-guys,
who purge from without, sure that
murdered Santas levy just rewards.
Henry, an almost-native Miamian and a member of the Miami Poets chapter, is or has been a novelist, playwright, poet,
travel writer, film maker, grammar text and software creator, editor of Lakes Express (a community newspaper), a published
author, teacher, writing mentor, Realtor, computer salesman, sailor, bridge enthusiast, panelist (Florida Arts Council), and
president of South Florida Chapter of the National Writers Association. Henry's novel, Down at the Bottom, won first
place in a national writers association competition, and Step Into My Metaphor devotes ten pages to his work. His play
Air Time has been performed on stage, and his script David: A Portrait of Education has been broadcast on
TV multiple times. Henry created and hosted Between the Lines, a weekly TV show highlighting celebrity writers. He
has written a travel guide tour of the Miami area, has done reporting and editorials for an area newspaper, and has won various
accolades for play writing, poetry, and fiction. He has served as president of a local writers association, and his daughter,
Mandy Greenfield, produced one of the New York Times' ten best plays of the year on Broadway, an accolade for which
he takes parenting credit.