When Lorca held a dagger
to his poem's throat
and demanded angels
forsake their voice of haiku,
but must crow in telegrams
inscribed on carnations,
Those red roosters of heaven,
(you said only that their host was feathered –
did you not notice their craws, their combs,
Gabriel's stud-strut across the yard?)
crazed by their silencing,
voices locked forever on wax cylinders,
Like heavenly accordions
playing dust polkas,
like a cricket whose chirp
cannot be found in the wimples
of a nun, the mad search
and beating of sacred cloth with a cane –
Then oh Lorca, oh Basho,
outside, the smell of fruit trees
in Valparaiso:
The lemons, so sour –
Transubstantiation drinks
Scent of angel skin
Month: April 2022
Fussy Little Forms: “Slough”
A “Slough” is the poetic form of a muddy bog, or shedding dead skin, or stuff I say to my wife as we drive.
| Sloo | sluff | sloe |
|---|---|---|
| Small dark globose astringent fruit of the blackthorn | ||
| Zoroaster | Can you say “Wickaboxet?” | |
| Come visit the museum of spores | ||
| Mucilage | ||
| The tater-tot world of the arcane | ||
| Fetch the fiddle Mary! | Vacant lots: vacant are our lots in life | Madman mud man, grave digger with a trowel for your mouth |
| Drear, drear, the sheep do shiver in the rain | ||
| Willows weep as weep they must, their draped shrouds prepare for us the way | Yarmouth | |
| Mayfly may be the maybe-fly could would should fly, the can-fly, can’t-fly, will-fly, won’t-fly | Shooby-Do |
The News
April, early morning, birds have the microphone – the squawk box in full dither – I scan up and down the sundial sniffing for signal with my beak as if some frequency of light and shadow on my face will clear the static. The Byrds – classic rock, no, "First known use of 'chugalug' was in 1945" – talk radio, no, A woodpecker's twhack knocks on my bones: "Hey old man, I'm tawking to you!" and each tap bends another creaking nail, Filches in the bark of my tired muscles for grubs or honey or whatever leaves me flightless and famished in my walk down this dirt road every morning, octets of birds and peepers a Met Opera broadcasting Tosca on public radio, Those strings of my father's Puccini and Verdi lifted from vinyl and woven into nests that spiral outward, my mother belting "Praise the lord, and pass the ammunition!" waking us with her birdshot voice – are those notes or holes in the sky? Sun comes on the loudspeaker, it must be recess. I hear you say "hey" and finally I'm here, present, your hand, feathered in mine. A quiet settles in. I get the news.
Diner, June 13, 2019
The caller said your father had died. We were sitting in a booth at the Greek diner. Who better than Greeks to know Tragedy? Our waiter is from Guatemala. Maybe who better than Guatemalans to know tragedy. The restaurant is empty. Who better than empty to know loss. His wife will burn him. She can send the box if anyone wants it. If anyone wanted forgiveness, I would tell you a burnt heart closes like a door as the last customer leaves for the night. We pay the check and leave a tip in the jar. After we are gone the waiter will spread our coins like ashes.
First published Sept 2020 in the I-70 Review
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