It’s why you
can’t be captain, your bad bits keep leaking out.
1.
I call him the
Imposter, his horse looks just like mine.
That’s your hoss Buster and if you ain’t been in the
saddle, then where in tarnation has you been?
I comes and goes, other actors take
the stage.
Where
goes it?
Gathering. It looks for another.
Sits on the moon sometimes, or swims
To deep ocean’s dark bottom
Well
I’ll be
Bird shapes in the branches, quick
call, come go, kiss kiss, toodleloo. Wings go up and down.
Tailfeathers.
It
keeps talking
It’s my ride, he’s rash
Saddlesore
I suppose you could call it that. I
call him the Lobster, he snaps.
I
might too if I were being boiled alive.
Sitting on the step sometimes,
trying to remember how to dream,
With the woodpigeons drowsily
waiting in the garden, while blackbird sings.
And the wren whips through the
leaves of the ivy
Out and in, swift eye, peering
through the ivy
Then into the air, is gone.
It’s
a sad song.
It’s written in stone, wrought in
wreaves, graven and goodgiven, not the soot and smut you’d stand it for.
Whitens in mist, or when clouds cloak it.
Don’t
darken it.
Night comes.
2.
Speak
plain mister
It’s speech? It smells right? It’s
funny, I felt it so. It froths. You deem it amiss?
It turns that way, over the pink
muscle
of the tongue. Eye it
Its markings, machine-made,
It spins.
That’s
gun talk
where it gets it, how it falls out
in the breath.
It’s
all chewy
I grafted it myself
I
done my part
You played your part I spun my art
and out of earth picked poetry
Pah!
Paltry, my Poppy
could
pipe better/
Pipe down, I gust it, my facts were
misconstrued. I hatched it
from the start, a great yolk, all
of it, a wheeze, a lark, a ruse.
A starling, a stork and a mistral
thrush, a wren, a seabird too
Say,
an albatross
Morbid destiny, the error won’t be
obviated. It hangs as physical weight and the heart
has to work harder. It drags
downwards, it slows the step, it palsies the hand.
So
you can’t shoot straight>
Sin started it
That’s
serendipitous
It sounded sweet?
Like
cotton candy
Sweeten it! I’ll sugar everything.
If you hadn’t frightened a face on me I’d have none. Just a mutter among many
moaning. You plucked me.
You
was suspicious looking.
The cats called it. I was whistling
Dixie, you saw it, drinking my milk
straight out the bottle
Sure
as Dixie’s Daisy
And a slug of whatever he’s having,
that’s the spirit. I’ll slurp it, a soupcon, no, scratch it,
a six-shooter, something I can blow
the smoke off of.
Sure
thing Smokey
A sure thing’s a fine thing Dusty,
and you can salt your fries with that.
Sure
as Tacos Tuesday.
Totally. It’s a tease. My time was
running out. I totalled it, trashed it and traded it in.
Timeshares
are risky business partner
Don’t I know it, it twists
You
can’t trust it
It tricks
It
turns on you
It’s terrible. I’m torn. My pieces
everywhere.
You’re
shorn
My fleece is everywhere,
You’re
furless
I’m forlorn.
3.
What
will they call us?
Dialogue of the Soul with an
Uncertain American Dimension.
Of
uncertain age
And curious Destiny. Grant it, we
two
Together
Bless it.
Grant
Good’s Grace
Grave it
It
was here written-
And shall it be
Choose
it
I choose it
A
damn fine double act.
Doubtless, I deem it so
And
believe it often
Dream it when I sleep at night
And
waking keep touching it
It wants it
It’s
Totem Truth
Tell it
It
gallops the wide prairie, it cries freedom, wild wind, in her hair.
Taste it
It’s
salty
I seeded it myself.
It
seemed it
Save it
A
toast to your good health-
I need it
Heartache?
Heard it?
Each
time of hearing my own heart rends anew.
I lost it
Lately?
Longly.
Lonely?
Only
O
that I could-
Calm it, I couldn’t keep it, cool
it, it simmers by itself.
4.
I’m Ham Spam
I’m
Hawaii Spam with Pineapple Pieces
Aloha Hawaii Spam
Hullo
there Ham Spam
Let’s spickle candidly
True,
we’re tinned that’s the nub of it, the meat is all inside
Uncan me!
Could
we?
Our virtue’s all within.
5.
I’ve
unstitched him. His meat is all without
You’ve nobbled me. I’ve nubbed it.
My innards are out, I’m opened, but strangely see
The true nature of all things, it
spreads before me
You’re
lunchmeat.
I’m pink but I’m curious. It’s recursive
and wafts in waves. It’s sliced in stacks see it?
(he
speaks profound) It’s piecemeal, can it be stuck together?
In kind, I think, it’s complicated.
Each lozenge can be elongated. They’re tongue-like
Poke
it out, unfurl it
It has a certain grandeur when it’s
folded
It’s
Alpine
It has its high points
It
peaks and troughs it’s true. Is it terminal?
We’re numbered in days, calendars,
we tear off the pages, till it tells one day’s December
It
darkens
We depart.
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