Bar
History
the steady yarned mallet
against the stretched human skin of a timpani
scythe and chaff and all of that
We discuss time
God are we boring
always burning hapless fuckers
a series of fields being made fallow
Fallow is a yellow word
stalks of corn limp
inkspots bloom across them
they salmon belly in the anemic autumn sun
Roe on the tongue fizzing like pop rocks
endless present melting at the vanishing point
leaves a lump of cooly green radioactive slag
in elephantine shapes
It isn't such a steady beat
this history
percussion as drunken bar fight
and whiskey spilled on the already sticky table
Showing posts with label fields. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fields. Show all posts
05 February 2017
06 January 2017
Poem-A-Day #312 : Pyrite
Pyrite
Let the record show that we were at least genuine - in some things - that the field of ourselves was sewn with attempts towards beauty
at times it was fallow and covered in snow - and in those times the seeds could relax - they could - wheat rests in ice to grow for early summer - can this not also be true of ourselves
I know the arguments for and against - the sighting of the hawk fighting the raven over the rabbit - there is a wheel that we are tied to
it perpetually takes us under water - rocks us against the spokes - winnows us - separates bone from meat
Field metaphors are about growth and death and cycles - they crop up like weeds in the words of great and lesser poets - they are reserves of water sitting beneath the earth - waiting like oil to be drilled from their ancient tombs
what a beautiful nostalgia - the wide-brimmed farmer aloft his perpetually churning machine - no sign of drought or of hail or early frost here
The lie in that America is obvious to any reader of any book on any subject - even not farming - but the hope in the bread belt - the grains of it a sort of pebble across the water of culture - that is nice to look at to hold to the light and to see ourselves in
does that negate ourselves - make the want of truthiness to be invalid - it at least makes our claims pyrite though no less amazing in their reality
Let the record show that we were at least genuine - in some things - that the field of ourselves was sewn with attempts towards beauty
at times it was fallow and covered in snow - and in those times the seeds could relax - they could - wheat rests in ice to grow for early summer - can this not also be true of ourselves
I know the arguments for and against - the sighting of the hawk fighting the raven over the rabbit - there is a wheel that we are tied to
it perpetually takes us under water - rocks us against the spokes - winnows us - separates bone from meat
Field metaphors are about growth and death and cycles - they crop up like weeds in the words of great and lesser poets - they are reserves of water sitting beneath the earth - waiting like oil to be drilled from their ancient tombs
what a beautiful nostalgia - the wide-brimmed farmer aloft his perpetually churning machine - no sign of drought or of hail or early frost here
The lie in that America is obvious to any reader of any book on any subject - even not farming - but the hope in the bread belt - the grains of it a sort of pebble across the water of culture - that is nice to look at to hold to the light and to see ourselves in
does that negate ourselves - make the want of truthiness to be invalid - it at least makes our claims pyrite though no less amazing in their reality
11 August 2016
Poem-A-Day #164 : Wood (Part 11 : Wheat)
This is Part 11. Read Part One HERE.
Wood (Part 11 : Wheat)
Wood is culpable : even in its own destruction : the trees fill in until there isn't room for more or even for what is there already : think about those pine trees edging out the aspen : trees are unloyal :
They burn too easily split until they become tables where people play Settlers of Cataan :
Here is some wheat :
The fields spread out before me and I begin to dig until I find the graveyard of the trees : the stone-like slabs veined and unbreaking : they are marble : they are red and gray and yellow : cool and against your cheek :
The statue in the chapel stares from its pedestal the cold eyes look into the stone room and chill the air around it : its face is missing is worn to the quick is all grain and wishes of hope :
Hope is a seed hanging on the branch waiting :
Here is some wheat : a promise of the future that may come if the rain is good and the winds are good and the seed isn't bad and the fields are rich :
Wood (Part 11 : Wheat)
Wood is culpable : even in its own destruction : the trees fill in until there isn't room for more or even for what is there already : think about those pine trees edging out the aspen : trees are unloyal :
They burn too easily split until they become tables where people play Settlers of Cataan :
Here is some wheat :
The fields spread out before me and I begin to dig until I find the graveyard of the trees : the stone-like slabs veined and unbreaking : they are marble : they are red and gray and yellow : cool and against your cheek :
The statue in the chapel stares from its pedestal the cold eyes look into the stone room and chill the air around it : its face is missing is worn to the quick is all grain and wishes of hope :
Hope is a seed hanging on the branch waiting :
Here is some wheat : a promise of the future that may come if the rain is good and the winds are good and the seed isn't bad and the fields are rich :
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