You looked up.
The moon had become
a turquoise glow
a passage to the sky,
The sky had broken loose
and left a great goat
created by the sky,
a sheep in wool’s clothing.
Why? I asked.
You shook your head.
You shook your head twice.
‘Broken animal,
do you not know
the heir is half
in love with
easeful death.’

Why the air? Why indeed.

Peach Night

{This is my 6ooth post, Huray, Huray]

Each night is peach night, or so
The old sages pretend.
They compare them with a gusto
To pears at state fairs. Commend
To larger and better venues
The virtue of peach melba, the valor
Of a fresh peach, and vow good news
To those who sell cobbler for less than a dollars
Real sages can’t be sagacious all the time,
However. They mess up like you and I and rhyme
The wrong line, keep time with a clock
Instead of our feet and try to mock
     Everyone’s belief, even though the crows
     Lead to autumn leaves and winter snows.

To Tom Davis

(I decided that this will help everyone (hum, everyone) reading this poem. There was no point burying it among the replies.)\


I’m going to try to tell you how I wrote this poem (I, the Day, See below)

It took me about a half hour to write the poem entire—with a couple of word changes over the ensuing day.  I changed to ‘runs’ from ‘escape’, for example. I was concerned about the way the words fit next to each other, not so much with what they might mean. Thus, ‘alphabetizing owl’ and ‘senescence’ and ‘intemperance’—most people think I’m showing off my vocabulary with ‘senescence’, and I am, but not in the way they suppose.

So, the poem clusters around ‘I, the day’ which attracted me right away—two subjects that had to have a metaphorical relationship. I am not the day, by any stretch of the imagination. I wonder if all metaphors exist in a sentence—as if in apposition—the most famous metaphor. ‘Juliette is the sun’, would work, ‘Juliette, the sun, kills the envious moon‘, but this one necessitated a choice—should I go with ‘the day consists’ or ‘I consist’. I went with ‘consist’, I think, because it enlarges the metaphor, it is one thing to say ‘I am the day’ and another thing to say ‘I am the trees and rivers.’

‘Alphabetizing owls’ came to me from the gods:  confected, baked, and topped with chocolate sprinkles (also known as jimmies). It was perfect, I knew that right away. To hell with what it means. I’ll figure that out later. (Or, I’ll get Tom Davis to tell me what it means.)

Next, ‘hunched’. Hunched resembles itself; hence, hunched like poets. Hence, predatory poets, and not just your run of the mill poets. But poets of senescence and poets of intemperance. They sound nasty and scolding. But they have a strength, that’s death-defying.

And finally, the colon—and it took me a long time to realize I needed a colon, granted that I wrote the whole poem in 40 minutes: the colon to tie it all together: the holiness of life/encoded in a wing span. I wanted the whole poem to swope down on the reader. Talons ripping into his cloak. Silently.    

The Lake Drunk

Damn those remorseless worms. They build a nest in the bottom of the bottle and pretend to be egregious agave. They drink it down as if they could live in the stuff.

‘They dangle from the rock,’ she said. ‘They think of everything.’

‘All they think of is dirt,’ he said. What you leave is what you come back to.

The shadows grow longer. The leaves that could blow in the high hills are left to shatter like old plate glass, convinced that they reflect nothing.

Two shadow poets climbed out on to the slate quarry that backed up on to the lake. They poured some tequila on the rocks.

Was this the blessing or was the lake just drunk?

They liked to give the slate roses and wine, these poets, and pieces of dark chocolate, and they will, nay, may, recite their poems—their poems as tears.

Poetry dwells in deep, deceptive places. In a drunk lake, for instance. Or in a final landscape. In the final breath of life.

Poetry dwells between Tequla and salt, they  thought.

Tipsy as a sandbar.