A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.


There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.



8 thoughts on “Or

  1. readers were betting that the golden hands
    were the hands on a clock
    the limbs on a clock (?)
    middle of the sky
    the center of the sun
    like a church-mouse
    you tend to hide from your earthly responsibilities
    you constantly shift gears
    when you could just stand still
    or purchase an automatic transmission
    Sisyphus had the rock
    you, patronizing noble savages
    ——–how many readers are brave enough to leave a comment ?
    readers afraid of sodomy ?
    readers afraid of crucifixion ?
    a STD from the written word ?
    black lung from poetry ?
    you with your potentially provocative relationships
    incompletely developed females
    Diana look-a-likes
    in scuba gear
    Diana look-alikes
    in terrible backseat accidents
    the sound of shifting gears
    and metal twisting
    the sound of glass shattering
    the smell of engine fluids


  2. patronizing the savages
    rounding up all the natives
    forcing them to stand inside the church
    and read your latest poem

    old honeymoon poetry cut up
    and rearranged into highly contrived matter
    hints of the hundred pound organ
    the growing gift from God

    the shock of that first glimpse
    of the hundred pound organ

    lesser women and pedestrians
    ran away as fast as possible

    other men instantly felt
    inadequately developed


    • Nah, you have no idea what you are talking about
      I am probably a savage myself in the worst sense of the word
      And i hate organ music unless it is being performed by the drunken s. kuryokhin
      Perhaps i would gather animals in a church
      And bring psychic tv from the 80s
      And read out loud the phonetic poems of hugo ball


    small animals in the woods weep
    children refuse to blow out their birthday candles
    on to other news:
    I wanted to use “squelching speculation” in my text today
    I know that religious conversion and necrophilia have nothing to do with you
    a small amount of gallows-humor has its place
    just think how you would glow “white”
    in a church full of natives


    • on the other hand, when you know what you are talking about
      small animals in the woods devour bears and elks
      and children would gladly roast your brain cells
      which might seem just squelchy enough for any innocent bystander

      as to your other news, i have no idea myself
      some people are native to things most peculiar
      do you really think i must glow white before them


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