Poem #66

My market…

Look at all the people like cows in a herd…

from “I Like Birds”, by the Eels

People will spit, give you shit
Just for looking at them
And for walking too slow…

from “Nowadays”, by the Eels

Every crop of hearts was sheep.
They have a barn, and from a trough in it
take out grain to their fleecy teeth content.
No kernel was for empty stomachs, yet.
Each hoof has to pay,
before going back to chomp,
before going back to play.

On their weedy hills stays pastel spring.
Beneath the sunny day,
the weights on toes resist lifting stones of bones,
heavy steels and limbs of cities.
Between our glassy eyes of windows,
we see our extravagant and trialed labors,
but what money goes home
from billboard to body,
from robbery of Spencer’s lulling and folksy scenes
to wile fancy instruments of kings
from meeting of minds in little words,
“How are you”, but I do not know.
(Such beguiling stuff of sales), we must part ways.
I only dream exchange:
not to change an empty talk for empty talk–
Lo! Destitution of spark, immediately to smoke, and not to flame,
the streets seemed more a seabed.
Such are our sunken wonders, the masters of volume we became.

If only to be a shipmate on one deck for a day,
to climb their masts away into their sails,
to steal the air they must have caught before the wreck,
what tales would such long and cryptic breath contain?

Chomping out the space of silence,
hacking at the rooms at rest,
beside the forks of pursuits pictured around
one blinded and peg-legged thumb come to drinking at maps.
Thud from feet and heckle below his teeth slowed to none.

I see the merchants of slaves,
and their oars digging into waves, towing their ships
toward rich islands with short resources
from treasure mines, finite as those crisp white sands in time.
And oh, the volcano hidden behind wide, palm leaves,
what fiendish, dastard ash sneezed over the tropic gleam?
Oh, just how to turn all the flowers to the melted scrap off stoves?

 

14 May 2012

 

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