Sunday, August 23, 2009
I came upon a little cabin
out in the forest. The beds
had all been slept in. It is
the dutiful hunter
who spends a lot of time
sitting in trees
I envy. Not the detective
touching other people’s things.
I think it is my birthday today.
Lay down like a pleisaur fossil
in the bed. All my old lovers
are working overtime.
They’re putting in a pipeline.
They’re going to have pity
run straight into my stomach.
Outside a devilish man sings.
I lean out the window
I sing the little devil in.
I take one of the cigarettes
out of the ashtray
and look it over.
There is a sadness
is smoking a stranger’s cigarette.
Out here in the darkest forest
I must speak to what is here.
It is snowing outside.
The cabin is steaming up.
The cat’s seersucker fleece.
List what I have found
among the bed sheets—
a woman’s sock. A book of poems.
The yellow moon of a toenail.
Follow me, I say to the smoke
I am the only person in this house.
I’ve created a robot that speaks
only of my mistakes.
He reiterates my old letters to you.
I put him out in the snow.
It is a wild snow. The gymnist
trees bend and straighten, stick
their green asses into the river.
The little cabin shakes in the wind.
I can hear the robot outside saying
This is now the pageant.
Enter Linis with his dirty blanket.
Enter angels with their bullhorns.
And behold the wide, frozen river
in the 9th circle of Hell, where on it
skates the polymorphic confessors
in their tight snowsuits.
And I can see the blind snowman
with my mother’s hat on his head
and crumbs on his face—
I follow him into the darkness.
There is a great, white tree bent
in the field. The storm risen
into oblivion. I walk
through the vestibule
of a plowed path.
I seek the latitude of the field.
There the tree is bent.
Look on its impotent limbs modestly.
I’m taking notes on what I find:
Someone has been sleeping in my bed,
Someone has broken my little chair.
Someone has bombed my city.
I feel unprofessional, one bear
eating from three bowls,
my head in the oven,
waking up suddenly
in the night to look
willowy at the slim ghost,
remembering a voice.
Order at Tin House or Amazon now! “[A] brilliant, wildly imaginative mediation on grief and loss and coping with being human and then...
1. MONK BOOKS. My press, Monk Books , is just killing it lately (big big thanx to my boo/editor, Ben Pease)... see an interview on Entrop...
Dear Readers! I'm thrilled to announce my first compilation of POETRY COMICS is here and ready for you to order. POETRY COMICS FROM THE ...