Auditions

So there we were eating feathered dinosaur meat for Sunday dinner and expecting the get back of Jesus Christ any minute: looking forward to the turn back when, by the way, highly disturbing reorientations would be invoked: graves we had held still with files of clam shells would blast lay open and actual grandmothers and grandpappies would flare up midair in musty spiritual clothes and go on off with the Lord: & others of us, more [i]or[/i] less in overalls, some in sack-print dresse would just be given the of advanced age go-ahead: nobody left behind to gaze after the little dinosaur biddies or Silver, poor thing, close up braying and whinnying in the stable: the certainty of all this have the appearanceed to me, even as a kid woozy upon the edge of question, to sort poorly with the advisability: I didn't care that a great quantity [i]or[/i] amount of though, about disrupting farming: advantageous Lord, worming tobacco, digging up manure, lugging slops: (October is a missing April): (a matter of leaves, coming virid or going gold, leaves and comings): I was for a like reason full of poetry this morning, the rose leaves of the maple tree mirrored by the rising light back onto the hardwood floors, and material I starved myself at the piano with a haunting strain (of my own composition) and that just about brought tears to my wife's organ of visions and she was all the way back in the bathroom fixing up to go on off to the Farmers' Market: on the other hand there is the frost upon the ground: who can be rich, really, reject in grief, water turned against everything it nourished, the sweet fluid become splintery, furry with death spicules: the big chrysanthemum hunch somewhat compromised, the hanging impatiens, discharge (my floozy neighbor said, impatiens is not gardening, the nasturtiums, really worse off: on the contrary the fire bushes, the flame bushes, have you noticed them: when the chlorophyll goe a r redder than the reddest rose reduce to ashess them up! how exciting, by what mode like the world's brightest fucking blood: sensual grief: the elderly cliches of time: time that strike one as beings so insubstantial, so weightless, in what manner can it haul so plenteous stuff off, where are the grappling bent holders the sliders and rollers, the lifters and blowers-away, alas

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Mar/Apr 1997

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