An American Poet (Edited)

[palifan]

By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath, I love the stuttered sinew metaphor very original but since it’s so unique at first glance it may make the reader pause to understand what you mean . Consider moving after your actual explanation ie 

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.

By this stuttered sinew of the land’s breath 
I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.

I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?
I love howling because too much sky a lot but I would either expand, rework, or lose this stanza. If you want to introduce the idea of “prophet” you need to work the idea though the entire piece. How does being a poet jump into being a prophet? The leap is a bit jarring and interrupts the flow.

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.  Very strong love this stanza.

I hear hymns in train whistles, love this stanza gritty and grounded
tractors groaning blues beneath a corn moon,
neon diners with coffee thick as oil,
waitresses named June,
or something like it.

My vowels sag
like porch swings in August, pulls you to a region of dialect nice
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.

I don’t write;
I plow.
I sing with hands in dirt, try another word for “sing” since you use it earlier 
words, like land and hunger, too big for the mouth, 
Either expand 
but I try anyway
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.

One breath:
Chicago’s jazzy shuffle,
horns laughing at the sky.
Next:
swampwater rising,
gators blinking like gods
who forgot their names but not their hunger.

America runs,
Ideally tie “running” into “spilling” since the words don’t naturally 
tie together but it’s optional.
This is a lovely stanza
spilling its own language—
a freight train screaming,
dreams busted like whiskey bottles,
glass scattered on iron rails.
swept up in a twister—
words flung like seeds,
rooting where they fall.

Isn’t that America?
A fast train screaming toward ideals—
freedom, equality, justice—
never pausing to board its passengers.
It runs empty,
carrying dreams too big for its frame.

I chase that train,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for me to shout:
“All aboard!”

Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.

And yet, I’m no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.
I call for big things,
but my voice splinters
like an echo in a canyon.

What ghost haunts the platform?
His words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
I leap—
Again, missing.

Ft

The end to me kinda sputters leaving me unclear on the overall theme.

I’ve read another of your works and it’s really a pleasure. I would avoid using the same words multiple time unless it’s part of the core theme ie “words” “sing “hunger.. if there is a specific 
Purpose to pull a readers attention back to a word keep it otherwise use your gifts and say it
a slightly different way. 

You really pull the readers attention into a grounded gritty reality it’s great. I wouldn’t trim so much as streamline a bit for flow and comprehension. Even beautiful metaphors unfortunately can actually bog down flow (not meaning this poem in particular just in general).

I’m new here so nice to meet you!

Look forward to more works!