Last summer
Sunday, September 26, 2010
For Oakley
Remembering what you said
I took the last remaining ear of sweet corn
From the dry cackling stalk
And sat down watching the bittersweet turn color
“we eat them right in the field,
never cook ‘em, way, way best that way”
you told me, the son teaching the father
after your last summer working the corn field
off Scuttle Hole Road
this temporal contiguity, not the least lost in this fleeing moment
nor the sun and cool rain in the kernels
no longer knowing if I am here
remembering you
or you are there remembering me
You open your eyes
Saturday, August 07, 2010
You open your eyes
You swing your left leg rotating your acetabulofemoral joint
The heal of your foot is about to touch the cool wooden floor
Infinite possibilities are present
The floor is no longer there
Your foot is a claw that can only write sonnets
There is no space between you and history
That which has always happened will never happen again
The wooden floor is where the exegesis ends and the eisegesis begins
Your sonnets begin to claw away all possibilities
The distance between your foot and the wooden floor
Is the immeasurable void between the sublime and the juggernaut
The cool wooden floor was never there
You haven’t opened your eyes
“All’s right with the world”
“All’s right with the world”
“All’s right with the world”
Belief is at once prophetic, magical, sublime, how futile!
The space between your foot and the floor
Is either immense, or you are moving very slowly
All Grows smaller with each passing moment
The moment becomes the distance
Your foot that was a claw becomes a foot again
All your sonnets become dust and winged insects
You recognize in yourself the sublime and the juggernaut
…and carry forth from this day forward
The wooden floor is the sea of being
That you will never slip your toe in
You open your eyes
You swing your left leg rotating your acetabulofemoral joint
The heal of your foot is about to touch the cool wooden floor
Infinite possibilities are present
The floor is no longer there
Your foot is a claw that can only write sonnets
There is no space between you and history
That which has always happened will never happen again
The wooden floor is where the exegesis ends and the eisegesis begins
Your sonnets begin to claw away all possibilities
The distance between your foot and the wooden floor
Is the immeasurable void between the sublime and the juggernaut
The cool wooden floor was never there
You haven’t opened your eyes
“All’s right with the world”
“All’s right with the world”
“All’s right with the world”
Belief is at once prophetic, magical, sublime, how futile!
The space between your foot and the floor
Is either immense, or you are moving very slowly
All Grows smaller with each passing moment
The moment becomes the distance
Your foot that was a claw becomes a foot again
All your sonnets become dust and winged insects
You recognize in yourself the sublime and the juggernaut
…and carry forth from this day forward
The wooden floor is the sea of being
That you will never slip your toe in
You open your eyes
“Poor Yorick, remembering, preparing”
Thursday, May 20, 2010
New issue of 13 miles from Cleveland is out at http://tinyurl.com/32akao3
My image is here – “Poor Yorick, remembering, preparing” http://tinyurl.com/39h2g3m
My image is here – “Poor Yorick, remembering, preparing” http://tinyurl.com/39h2g3m
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