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| 'Participants', Lisa Yuskavage |
horded infidels ride rite whiting horses
today is third week beginning
spring in the Northern hemisphere
under dapple skies and scented fingers
of high minded rain, they rummage possibility
left over from last night's front pushing through
my dreams are spilling into poems again
no gain to tract shun or some pact done
to insure myself against myself
so I write, mottling the words
bottling any disambiguation
and dragging myself
covered in abstracts
like a duffel bag
disguised as a home
how a heart lives ...
this vignette
is covered
in travel stickers
and mountain
into sand
music ...
a lone gull skims tidal entry and retreats
eats of me what it can, my bi-valves up breathing
I spit up myself, another piece of seaweed
drawn circle down, elliptically ever closer
then farther away from the shore
until, upon tongue of land I land
a storm perhaps skirts me towards, forwards
where wear is a worn pattern in the thatch roofs
the small houses on stilts a few hundred meters from the ocean
and in the morning there are the sounds of chickens and a dog
one morning the fates came to me, a proposal
in their breast they held me, to become
what they were so ...
I wandered to a bank of pay phones down the lane
remembering to call god and saying to myself
before I dropped that dime
yes, it is better to be me in hell than it is to serve
those who ignore humanity, in heaven ...
EJR ©
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