Archive for poems
‘Tis the season and all that crap. Hopefully you’ve been partaking in the great consumerist holiday that is Christmas by buying stuff for the sake of buying stuff, or perhaps you feel guilty about not spending enough time with that (not so?) loved one so you’ve attempted to make up for it by purchasing a waffle iron. I don’t know what you people do in your spare time, so I won’t venture any more guesses. To the point!
Here’s some random stuff to read/discuss/ignore (after the break):
I Am But a Traveler in This Land & Know Little of Its Ways
BY DEAN YOUNG
Is everything a field of energy caused
by human projection? From the crib bars
hang the teething tools. Above the finger-drummed
desk, a bit lip. The cyclone fence of buts
Eight years ago this blog began. Thanks, everyone, for helping to make it a place that’s fun, informative, relevant, irreverent, and homey.
[audio 01 Shout Out]
With the Filing Deadline having finally passed like a jagged kidney stone through a scabbed urethra, we here at Scrutiny Hooligans (and by we I mean me) thought we’d resurrect this little dilly. Fun fun fun!
Whenever someone gets around to it (hey Ascend — I’m looking at you) we’ll provide a complete list of candidates running for local office and links to their websites so you can learn more about them.
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn’t afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How ’bout some coffee? Don’t mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.
SONNET IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
W. C. Williams
Nude bodies like peeled logs
sometimes give off a sweetest
odor, man and woman
under the trees in full excess
matching the cushion of
aromatic pine-drift fallen
threaded with trailing woodbine
a sonnet might be made of it
Might be made of it! odor of excess
odor of pine needles, odor of
peeled logs, odor of no odor
other than trailing woodbine that
has no odor, odor of a nude woman
sometimes, odor of a man.
From the imitable WB Keckler
Not wanting to know the constituents which compose your aggregate
is the usual human cloud; a roiling personality.
Your body’s microflora and microfauna have a rich inner life. These are
probably more photogenic than you will ever know.
(a) The Chinese considered the wild asymmetricality of funguses to be beautiful
(b) so they carved them in jades so many lifetimes ago
(c) or they saw them as suitable subjects for art
(d) and the concept of beauty was either irrelevant or absent
Charles Wright, who grew up just over the mountains east of here, and who, as a boy, spent part of his summers here…
Today I offer you one of my all time personal favorites, it has been rolling around in my head lately, so I thought I would share.
TOAD, HOG, ASSASSIN, MIRROR
Toad, hog, assassin, mirror. Some of its favorite words, which are breath. Or handwriting: the long tail of the ‘y’ disappearing into a barn like a rodent’s, and suddenly it is winter after all. After all what? After the ponds dry up in mid-August and the children drop pins down each canyon and listen for an echo. Next question, please. What sex is it, if it has any? It’s a male. It’s a white male Caucasian. No distinguishing birthmarks, the usual mole above the chin. Last seen crossing against a light in Omaha. Looks intelligent. But haven’t most Americans seen this poem at least once by now? At least once. Then, how is the disease being . . . communicated? As far as we can determine, it is communicated entirely by doubt. As soon as the poets reach their mid-twenties they begin living behind hedgerows. At the other end of the hedgerows someone attractive is laughing, either at them, or with a lover during sexual intercourse. So it is like prom night. Yes. But what is the end of prom night? The end of prom night is inside the rodent; it is the barn collapsing on a summer day. It is inside the guts of a rodent. Then, at least, you are permitted an unobstructed view of the plain? Yes. And what will be out there, then, on the plain? A rider approaching with a tense face, who can’t see that this horse has white roses instead of eyes. You mean . . . the whole thing all over again. Unfortunately, yes, at least as far as we are permitted to see.