Dec 11, 2003

From the Tomb

Haven't posted any poems on here for awhile because all of my poetic efforts have been focussed on print stuff. But here's an oldie (hopefully the formatting will work) that I'm posting because it holds some obscure personal relevance this morning.



perturbed perhaps
In this new climate, I'm made of puffballs,
styrofoam orbs
stuck with drinky things,
litte swords, little umbrellas, a sparkler
or two. Brain
a matrix of bilious conjecture embedded
in grey slate. Slate piles
to indicate status. Status queue,
reservoir of raspy laughter,
watershed of auld lang syne,
straw hat indicates, I'm a cowboy,
you're a cowboy, we're all cowboys here,
snapped shepherds' crooks for arms.
Excess hourglass
sand extracted from the round corners of my eyes,
that tiny foo-dog ball merely revolving,
occular, occult
like an undisclosed agenda: I say
frozen tears but you know that's wrong
because saltwater can't freeze,
the glaciers say so. I want to be a glacier
when I grow cold. Tell all my loves,
my falcons:
the countenance hopper makes Frosty a real boy.

All you falcons
I dare you to return
to my arms they're sticks.
You falcons regardant you falcons recursant
wants the ratte of wings
for their birthday.

Shaking palms indicate the flutter
of hummingbirds,
hirsute curlicues drawn on dun colored napkins indicate
the waves of the sea.

Yes, my legs are a sphere,
& my ribcage & my two eyes
metal marbles I think
you tell me as they fall in your lap.
I'm stuck here but
my armies of ocean-monkeys, of evil robots
bring me the names of the swan.
You names
I dare you to return
to my arms they're sticks.
The Y-shape indicating hands is rumored to intuit
veins of water under asphalt.
Divination nation, memos
in the tea leaves,
the river is the same river, when you're not looking.
The river freezes the river is my daughter.
Pause. Don't tell me
about your dream.

No comments: