III I

I keep my best obscenities for dusty sunflowers
That meet the sky at a corner of the wind.
I know that spirits don’t need footwear for
Walking across the face of a friend,
Nor ancient stories about soaring underpants,
Nor sacrificial air wrapped in rancid cutlery.
That wooden heads rise over the dry grass,
Like autumnal voices, warily.

 

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10 thoughts on “III I

  1. Harry Writes says:

    Nor sacrificial air wrapped in rancid cutlery.

    Ha. This is an image I don’t quite understand, but I love it. Your use of seemingly random connections between words, “sacrificial air” and “rancid cutlery,” are totally on point.

    It makes for a very different reading experience.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. as an enthusiast for the printed word
    I have tried so hard to change your mind
    about what you do with your obscenities
    just put them in a small diary
    please don’t place them in landscapes
    I know curse words glow near natural yellow

    Like

  3. at the Thursday morning séance
    Truman Capote asked about you
    he said that you have a mechanical mind
    that you think Russian
    questionable emotions
    on a battlefield of loneliness
    hopeless conflict outside drinking
    a world of cut-out dolls
    dilapidated valentines
    made from Chinese tissue paper
    constantly trying to conform
    to the laws of gravity
    rearranging your package
    worse than Michael Jackson
    ****I remember the taste of diesel

    Like

    • Do you have any idea what russians do
      When they have nothing to do?
      I am not going to tell you what they don’t do.
      And i am not going to say what they used to do.
      I won’t tell you what the french, the japanese,
      Or americans do.
      But russians hopelessly squeeze dostoevsky
      Out of their secondhand souls, drop by drop.

      As for me, however, i am dostoevsky-free,
      ‘cause i used to read him too much, and i am sick of him.
      And i am capote-free, let alone jackson-free, either,
      For different reasons.

      Like

      • I find that Russians and Americans
        are constantly
        trying to mend
        the consequences
        of being left unattended
        in childhood
        it seems to be a difficult task
        at night it is possible
        to hear prayers
        begging God
        to cure the virus of loneliness
        in my advanced age
        the Japanese are too small
        to observe
        I would need a microscope
        and I would
        rather have a new toaster oven
        as for the French
        what can I say ?
        the French are the French
        ever-increasing amounts of horse meat
        and vulgar tobacco
        AS FOR DOSTOEVSKY
        I have never read a single word
        too many scars
        from being forced
        to read Robert Frost

        Like

      • Russians remain married but detach easily
        pursuing their fulfillment through illusion
        the constant need for refreshment
        “Darling, would you get me a drink ?”
        Americans twist and squirm
        trying to find a position of comfort
        with wads of money and excesses
        ———————————————
        children plundered beyond rescue
        sexual ornaments openly displayed
        reading has become the same
        as counting numbers

        Like

  4. WELL SUNSHINE,
    STUPOR-STRICKEN ON THE LAMB
    adherence to sobriety
    something one would line the inside of their shoes with
    you made everyone mad
    when you said,
    “no place in America for over-blown refinement”
    refuge from the cold winter ?
    what with those shoes ?
    they are trained to associate with outlaws
    they reek of angry impotence
    a finger in superstition
    a finger in neurosis
    relatives living in hell
    ask them what is devilishly funny
    the word (humorous) in hell ?
    in the back room there is a basin
    where you can wash your hands
    after touching Dostoevsky

    Like

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