First Autumn Crop O' BEAMs, etc.
I'm still on the lookout for New Orleans elegies. If ya got 'em, send 'em (afieled@yahoo.com). In the meantime, I have a few new random things. This one, "Sprawl", is a Mary Walker Graham pastiche-BEAM. She's in there on a few levels...
I see you foraging through weeds in a field;
it's spring, air streaked green.
You build up a steady rhythm, nails thrusting,
knees sunk in mud-slop plots.
I'm with you in the field, I'm mud, or grass,
I'm beneath your nails, held fast.
Meat flakes off me. You pass on, satisfied.
Branches sway, flecked by tongues.
This is all real. Look at my garden's sprawl.
Do you see me here, or in the air?
On a not unrelated note, this one, "Wheels", concerns my ability to make anything STICK. It's sinister.
Rages & strains that blow bodies together
quickly & quietly disperse into sky's blank blue.
Only I'm still raging & straining, tempestuously,
hummed un-shifted vehicle. Choppy streets,
nothing turns, only memories of human bondage,
being more than wheels. What have I spun that
stuck me here? What glue-lining turned oil-lube?
I move, every "she" stays or broods beyond me.
Pot-holes in my head make dead silence the
playing tune. Shouldn't a let-up clutch leave
something behind? What's blown-out and
pumped gets put in the trunk w/ blankets.
What's jacked frosts over. I'm a trade-in.
Alright, so it's shamelessly MOR. What the hell, it's a tough world. Sometimes, I suppose, MOR is, in fact, MORE. Maybe not. Thanks to Steve Dalachinsky, Mary Jo Malo, Tom Savage, Jodi-Ann Stephenson for the contributions. Keep the faith.
I see you foraging through weeds in a field;
it's spring, air streaked green.
You build up a steady rhythm, nails thrusting,
knees sunk in mud-slop plots.
I'm with you in the field, I'm mud, or grass,
I'm beneath your nails, held fast.
Meat flakes off me. You pass on, satisfied.
Branches sway, flecked by tongues.
This is all real. Look at my garden's sprawl.
Do you see me here, or in the air?
On a not unrelated note, this one, "Wheels", concerns my ability to make anything STICK. It's sinister.
Rages & strains that blow bodies together
quickly & quietly disperse into sky's blank blue.
Only I'm still raging & straining, tempestuously,
hummed un-shifted vehicle. Choppy streets,
nothing turns, only memories of human bondage,
being more than wheels. What have I spun that
stuck me here? What glue-lining turned oil-lube?
I move, every "she" stays or broods beyond me.
Pot-holes in my head make dead silence the
playing tune. Shouldn't a let-up clutch leave
something behind? What's blown-out and
pumped gets put in the trunk w/ blankets.
What's jacked frosts over. I'm a trade-in.
Alright, so it's shamelessly MOR. What the hell, it's a tough world. Sometimes, I suppose, MOR is, in fact, MORE. Maybe not. Thanks to Steve Dalachinsky, Mary Jo Malo, Tom Savage, Jodi-Ann Stephenson for the contributions. Keep the faith.
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