Sunday, November 02, 2003
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!