Thursday, March 26, 2009

Hours clot. Birds flap like passports.
Fields explode with temper tantrums. Here comes trouble.

My soul has drifted too long like a cloud, so come and heal me,
bring me to the dirt, let my pores ooze with the brine of discotheques.

Hey you! Come unto me! Let the meadow march into my mouth!
I'm due for a moist trembling emotion, don't you think? Well, don't you?

Yesterday evening the daffodil shoots swallowed the horizon like butter;
now we wait all day for the color of yellow to bubble in their throats.

Ouch! Enough with the arrows! I know spring is coming.
Still, I've had my fill of target practice, I've had my fill of flying babies.

Everywhere mouth worship the tickings of dangerous strangers.
All night the resurrected grasses are suitcased by cow-kisses.

Last fall the lilac bushes wrote very convincing suicide notes, however now
they appear to be staging a bawdy leg-kicking comeback: what to make of this?

3 comments:

  1. I have no idea who this is but I really like this piece. All the talk of Spring, and the dancing in discotheques, and the last line that makes me think of Toulouse Lautrec and the Can-can. I'd like to read more of this author!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Stay tuned next week and all shall be revealed....:)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Despite the lilac bushes, it is certainly not Whitman. Richard Siken, perhaps?

    ReplyDelete