Prehistoric poets.You use words like crude tools,their legato stifled, stuckin the back of your throat:the guttural warble of a broken spadesunk into rich and fruitful soilor a hand-fashioned sandstone axeflung wildly at sleek metaphors..
SonnetsAnd I don't know why I don't just write you sonnets, wind autumn leaves through my typewriter, punch your name out across their veins, bruised green, these vital vessels for my words. And I shouldn't be doubting like this every day in this Othello love (and I loved her that she did pity them), this silent undercurrent of broken English questions ever since you stole my words with vaudevillean fishhooks from the lakes of my mind, open to you like an ally's borders. Bring them back, dead puppy like and shoeboxed so I can have myself all for myself, whole again and building dreams from the invisible vowels in their dead souls. And you don't know the half of it, you talk of dead poets like they were alive, you more a corpse than they (there's a fine line between you and the walking dead). Here I recall white knuckle concerts on the mezzanine at three in the morning through phone lines and tears, tapping my head lightly against the glass, resigned and doubting, looking for a loophole in the
O, what stultifying speech,O, what stultifying speech,what inspiring silence,what pleasant strain of music from your mouthdoth reach its hand and gather in a violent rageagainst my soul,cling tightly to the likeness of your Lord,to bow and pray to, chastise, reprimand, extol,You know the itching skin of every dying manwill not seek truth but remedy.Throw bodies on the rocks like rotten fruit,see bones dissociate from skin,leap distances like shards of fleshy glass:a sound so primal, so unique.Let me buy you watermelons that you might share a little in the pleasure.Be not the martyr nor the fly,a spider's willing pet,bite not the hand that feeds youbut rather infiltrate the mindand through the spine suck marrow from the bones,quick darting eyes in search of victims. Tears?Why, what absurdity? what willful punishment,a sentence unto death walked with such vile and doubting steps.Alaska sleeps -the fresh and tonic-water winter will abhor your presencein its white and chaste and silent ______
Fishin'Methinks the fisherman has caught himself a shark -A fish his nets can't keep and boat cannot support.Yet he he maintains the line. Hooked firmly to his bark,The beast is tethered tightly and the line is taut.What use has he for her? A stew, a steak, a dishWith spice and wonder or is she but testamentTo skill and courage of his crew, meant to distinguishMen from boys as women brim with wonderment?A shark! The whispers gather on the deck like smoke,A haze of fear and pride, they savour their rewardWhile their night's catch fights vainly 'gainst unyielding yoke -The sun picks out staccato splashes overboard.Beneath a full white sail, the plunderers of the seaDebate their options: cut it loose or keep it snared?Under their captain's caustic eye, they all agree:The line cannot be hewed, it holds a catch too rare.So they return to port, the wearied beast in tow,Dragged by determined boat t'ward hungry waiting lips,Ready to feast and praise and drink and sing 'bravo,'A cro
La vie. i-5She tests the tepid waters of her fate,first with a toe, then, hems in hand, she wadesthrough deep uncharter'd waters and createswhirlpools and waves and finds her life unmade,the surface rippled and unsteady byuncertain steps and inexperienced gait,smooth liquid parted with a faltering thigh-thus some years pass, her life still inchoate.She grows but more unsure with time, thoughts thick,her faith is thin and hollowed like old boneschilled by a wind of ennui, she pickswarm company, yet feels herself alone.But why is she unsettled? For in truth,too young to be concerned with aging andnot old enough to mourn a fruitless youth,she's yet unmarred by time's unwelcome hand.Still, she observes each day the dying hours,afraid to know how many might remainclean, waiting to be soiled, fresh, to be souredlike autumn fruit under the winter rain.She prays that they might pass her by unheard,with winged whispers: drowned, coccooned and hushed.She prays by night in tears with f