|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
|
if you are bored
you may look back
at the old entries.
if you crave new
poems by me, you
may call or email
me and I'll be happy
to send some your way.
otherwise, this site
will not be updated
or added to henceforth.
it's been a pleasure,
xangaphiles, but the
time has come to
move ahead with
new ventures. you
saw it coming, so
do not weep for me.
| | |
|
if there is wash there is pure. if there
is language, there is misspeak and
trial. if you are listen, you may hear,
but don't count on it. the silence will
persist. if you are vessel, there will
be pour. if you are poor, there will
be bread and oven, listen and warm.
| | |
|
Caribou, curling, luge, and moguls. Give me some money.
Back at the hotel. There's a car and a leopard, perhaps two
nuns and a back alley chainlink fence. That you've had it
coming to you, and I've had it none, buffalo or bison as the
situation warrants. Lilly Hammer was my dearest friend and
cohort. Albert Ville was my freestyle reinforcement. This is
ending soon. Give me some money, money please, get rid
of it. Lake Placid, anything but, as I recall. The mercury
recordings. Chill, silver, speed, whir. Volumes and volumes,
polar bears, woven fabric, meade. This is almost over, soon
you'll be in the cold ground. Frozen, really, we might have
to wait until spring, and bury you with a bag of tortilla chips.
Salmon, smoked and dried, bread, also dried, hot coffee and
whiskey. Your last meal. No one is watching, I forsee. That
it is fitting, that it is just, that you might be talking the straight
line from Cuchalain to wherever we are now, what hero. An
exercise in futility, in futurity, for the future, forever and ever.
Musket and flintlock, flint and steel. The sun never sets up here
sometimes, and it never comes up others. Sometimes night
lasts for thirty minutes. Seal fat, also dried. Caribou, frozen.
| | |
|
Pilgrim feels the ancient invocation
of electicity when she
touches the car door.
An angel draws near,
she rides a red pegasus, plays
a turkey call and carries two rolls
of quarters in her hands.
She waves the union jack for England,
storms the gates at Jerusalem,
breathes a prayer of indeterminacy,
sings a song vaguely
about sex and fiddles and smoked salmon.
| | |
|
Lisa’s rolling in the heather—
used to walk the straight and narrow,
but now she’s all
arms and legs, probiscus
billet-douxed and cactused
by christ-knows-who
on the postern pew of pa-paw’s Model
A.
Meanwhile, light-bulbs
and boxcars, let them be anathema
to my book deal. Let them
be anathema
to mood
and waffling. To buffalo herds peregrinating the unequivocal
champaign.
In months and weeks previous
to the ice-cubes’ moods melting, the innovations
of this confabulation, ductile and
flaccid, the coterie
conclaved,
the commode habitually un-
accommodating.
| | |
|
