Friday, April 12, 2013


Hey Gang, While it was fun to be silly and all-pink-baroque-rainbowy-design-critical with you, and while too, I enjoyed the familiarity and playful verbal repartee of such a candid, bright pack of you, I also felt a little remiss. I really did mean to find the poems that I had recalled and to show you how keeping passivity to a minimum, doesn't always seem graceless and can be quite elegant. Also, note that it is impossible not to use some "be verbs."  Like a heavy, sleepiness-inducing seasoning, they should simply be used sparingly.

So that I don't violate anyone's right to publish, I am only including an excerpt of the poem I was hoping to find online in class yesterday.  Here it is:

the pony dream

we know of fragile sounds between
the honey house and pump.  the rusted planks
alace tonight in suckle nests and spores.
how happy the beetles crawl the cockeyed knots
of barn, but the yarrow stalks bendin crisp
still frown.  whose spine frame juts above
the meadow starch?  mine. and what
naked piece of us inside? a grain bag-
vermin slept as mice drag in fresh straw.  
one moment we are, another- the matchbook
is open, a wing flick of hand cup, and a silo’s early
embers glown in fog. sublime now,  our sticky
gems of sky blinkin in tar.  who runs from
the kitchen bringin water pails or ice? 
no one.  the ambulance passes of night.
strangers walkin to, next the gracious
steppin back.   a burn pile creaks above
the chime and cruckus of tin frogs. 
their long unfolded legs, our yellow lit bodies
soft rocking.  the barn burns and all we say
is please- a last lullaby. our flame trickled farm;
a spider candle’s quick climb out the bell curlin
sky.  how separate we become from our self.   

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