The clouds of this
dreary hill country afternoon
are not the cartoonish
cottonballs of children's books
and bulletin boards.
They are not the stylish
manes of zephyrous horses
smeared like Monet across the
bending sky. They are not the
pinkish mountains or a
heavy sheet of grey.
They are, instead, a slow
reaching, the shadow of roots,
the extending fingers
of a dark and melancholy
god whose lightening face
is atmospheres above us.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
January 18, 2010
The large basin
just south of the main house
grows trees like broccoli,
great maternal things
full of braided bark.
ion the summers the
cattle lay and low
beneath its cool branches
and gnaw at its surfacing roots.
The tree, still green
in this heavy blanket of winter
is patient and holds
the sun, the shade,
and a thousand ghosts,
whose bodies and stories
all lay still within
te reach of her river-like roots.
just south of the main house
grows trees like broccoli,
great maternal things
full of braided bark.
ion the summers the
cattle lay and low
beneath its cool branches
and gnaw at its surfacing roots.
The tree, still green
in this heavy blanket of winter
is patient and holds
the sun, the shade,
and a thousand ghosts,
whose bodies and stories
all lay still within
te reach of her river-like roots.
January 17, 2010
is this Love? Envy? Regret?
is this the three-headed Ceberus
patient at Pluto's gate?
Shall I let it eat me?
No?
If I go on, and I
best this snake-maned dog,
all that waits for me is
Charon's ferry, a lonely voyage.
Even impeccable solitude
is solitude.
is this the three-headed Ceberus
patient at Pluto's gate?
Shall I let it eat me?
No?
If I go on, and I
best this snake-maned dog,
all that waits for me is
Charon's ferry, a lonely voyage.
Even impeccable solitude
is solitude.
January 16, 2010
There are some things,
try as we might, we
cannot shake off our
dusty boots of progress.
The weights I carried
as an eager child
still slow my gait
as a bearded man,
and the poisoned apple
I peeled with my teeth
still sits, unbruised and
glowing in my passive fruitbowl.
I wonder if the greater
danger of sharing this fruit is
that I might poison the world
or realize after so many hungry years
that the fruit was never poisoned.
try as we might, we
cannot shake off our
dusty boots of progress.
The weights I carried
as an eager child
still slow my gait
as a bearded man,
and the poisoned apple
I peeled with my teeth
still sits, unbruised and
glowing in my passive fruitbowl.
I wonder if the greater
danger of sharing this fruit is
that I might poison the world
or realize after so many hungry years
that the fruit was never poisoned.
January 15, 2010
In the basements
of the Midwest
there are sewing
machines and ping
pong tables, hot water
heaters and over-stuffed
couches, boxes of
receipts and the good
wedding china. in
the basements of
the Midwest there
are globes and
Christmas decorations,
poker chips and fishing
rods, winter coats and
the grandchildren's toys.
In the basements
of the Midwest, there
are high windows
that look out on the
floor of the world.
Windows
that the Midwesterners
will peek out of if the
tornados come.
Tornados
that will leave only
Midwesterners, their
basements, and the secret
places where they are most human.
of the Midwest
there are sewing
machines and ping
pong tables, hot water
heaters and over-stuffed
couches, boxes of
receipts and the good
wedding china. in
the basements of
the Midwest there
are globes and
Christmas decorations,
poker chips and fishing
rods, winter coats and
the grandchildren's toys.
In the basements
of the Midwest, there
are high windows
that look out on the
floor of the world.
Windows
that the Midwesterners
will peek out of if the
tornados come.
Tornados
that will leave only
Midwesterners, their
basements, and the secret
places where they are most human.
January 14, 2010
Wind Farms
the arable land
the agrarian hands
planting small seeds
of tornados and
zephyrs to be
tended carefully
by some rosy
cheeked norse god
a harvest too beautiful
for human eyes to conceive
the arable land
the agrarian hands
planting small seeds
of tornados and
zephyrs to be
tended carefully
by some rosy
cheeked norse god
a harvest too beautiful
for human eyes to conceive
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13, 2010
Bob, a platinum blond
transsexual, works the
breakfast shift at an
Arby’s just off I-70.
After roast beef and
curly fries, my friends
and I, on a cross-Kansas
roadtrip, followed her out.
She eased, tight knees
into a white Sunfire
and flipped her long
hair as she checked
for oncoming traffic.
Her braceleted arm
jingled as she pressed
the gas and took
a sharp left onto
the icy highway,
And as we poured
back into our packed SUV,
I couldn’t help but
think how she was
both brave and defiant,
both dangerous and disruptive
both a hero and pariah to
our still-forming culture.
Bob, a strange little cup
of America, speeding down
the interstate, Stevie Nix
turned all the way up.
Matching her note for note.
transsexual, works the
breakfast shift at an
Arby’s just off I-70.
After roast beef and
curly fries, my friends
and I, on a cross-Kansas
roadtrip, followed her out.
She eased, tight knees
into a white Sunfire
and flipped her long
hair as she checked
for oncoming traffic.
Her braceleted arm
jingled as she pressed
the gas and took
a sharp left onto
the icy highway,
And as we poured
back into our packed SUV,
I couldn’t help but
think how she was
both brave and defiant,
both dangerous and disruptive
both a hero and pariah to
our still-forming culture.
Bob, a strange little cup
of America, speeding down
the interstate, Stevie Nix
turned all the way up.
Matching her note for note.
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