Archive for February 26th, 2011
Frost For God Rock
Erosion
is my word, half empty life.
His word, polish, scorns me.
No matter, my god rock’s free
in pocket, providing safety.
A little tribute for Eric who is a master of forms…
February’s Felicitous Friday Duel
I
We will slam whiskey inside the greenest hurricanes.
If we get simple, I will have an aneurism.
If we get stupid, I will sing happy birthday.
If the dogs chuff soft, I will hunt silver cactus.
If we hear the river, I will drag my conscience to the sand.
II
Tracing the sickened path of radiation meant for a terry-cloth lion,
hijacking happy genes and donating shot glasses,
we will breathe purple air with white pelicans,
growing weed for bouncing chuck wagons,
jumping rope on hoods of new white cars,
leaping boundaries on Robitussin highs
towards a bleeding mountainous dawn.
And then I will be down. And done.
Don’t you come lookin’,
Eggnog chaser.
III.
Plastic bones breathe deeply, snorting, begging for tape and glue,
through thicket and over the falls,
on to the mat where your tools and promises await rebuilding.
We will slam whiskey inside the greenest hurricanes
towards a bleeding mountainous dawn
of shrill wind chime voices freed by your disillusion.
Evelyn at Filling a Hole and I worked another duel or dual yesterday. We created two poems with alternating lines and then we used any of the lines without altering them to create one poem. I cheated and made a three-part thing, but it impossible to keep up with the artist Evelyn is. (Here is a link to our previous dual.)
Here are Evelyn’s masterpieces – She cheated and made two:
None Listens
The alligators shovel until the terrible breeze
lifts the golden coasters off the table that is stretching
around our necks like a dangerous neighborhood
which howls with the cacophony of the drive-by oceans
with bullets made of diamonds and ice.
We all talk and none listens as the bridge falls
and breaks my leg into thousands of pieces,
but we end on time and there is sweet chocolate
in the break room with saggy palm trees
and silly antique phones that plead
for a sense of community.
Lost on Mountain Highway
On this Friday, I feel the skates, the slicing edges,
sloppy beard growth in yellows,
blue and red painted lines of sporting
steer me, fear being loud.
A skeletal, barbed-wire fence tears through me,
making me choose between vague western happiness
and purple vegetables that paint me as a ruined human,
with thin paper bags hanging on my skin,
groaning with cat-like yawls
showing the world my fullness of sin,
all of my wrongs, growing fingers of terrible sewage,
telling all who swim in the ice that my core is rotten,
that I am not all human, that I should be buried
under the boulders that smile while plunging
toward the mountain highway
with a short retaining wall that retains nothing.
stillfugue 