Sunday, November 02, 2003


few days ago my son & i watched a television program about hippos. one amazing scene was taken at night (infrared?) near the river where lay the corpse of a water buffalo. earlier in the day one hippo oddly feasted on it a bit, undaunted by threats of lions. that evening in moonlight when hyenas came to partake the hippos all lumbered out of the river intimidating the hyenas with gaping jaws but to no avail. they retreated to the water after a great fuss. alligators were next, a gang of them encroached & the hyenas eventually went off. next came the lions roaring & batting. alligators retreated. this scene captured such a sublime sense of comedy & mystery & morbidity = Wonder

earlier in the show my son and i were considering the monarchal legitimacy of lions. after watching the procession to/from the water buffalo corpse he said he guessed maybe lions were kings in a weird kinda way. maybe he used the term f*ed-up, laughing. when they've a yen, lions can do pretty much what they like and do, much like -- well, we all know these humans. tuesday we again approach the election booths & have our feeble go at the flesh of the rotting water buffalo. persistence is a virtue/goal i keep thinking. but that's, i suppose, another/'s post.

in Jenn & Chris McCreary's The Ixnay Reader (Vol One 2003) is Frank Sherlock's Night Margins, which he read at The Poetry Project. there's a snip (pardon the spacing problems etc) fitting of the season & my own recent images/events/thoughts/haunts - here he is:

Staked out snapshots of chance arrangements claim to capture
          History each corner covered no way out the frame's work

          Night moves without a witness after the vacuum pop of the bulb
The animals & us can dialogue over the echo of all that's blown


          A handgun a vegetable & an empty glass are placed on a table
Relics models tools monument the darkness within the walls

Crumpled up Polaroid of the moon soaked in water the emulsion's peeled
          Away it hangs on the clothesline w/a tangled mobile of stars


Space being stated & denied on coincidence of edge a gourd mutated into grenade
          Ashes dead memory w/moments this is propaganda of course this is real

          Lightbulb stems blackened around the edges change the shape
Of thought a naked scratched head becomes scarred w/cloud formations


          Brooch by the waterhole w/a lyre design could belie this atmosphere
A burnished voice summons reflection there is verse in the drink w/ the parasites

Interrupt then repeat the song about the snake biting its tail a kid still in
          Costume is bored telling the future from memory w/ mud & rusted spades


one really must read all of it, though.

i'll take this kind of november weather any day, ma'am, thanks!


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