to write straight jazz poetry is like to be like a UN t(o)ranslator - it would help to have the corpus callosum cut, or: it's impossible to really do two things at once: it's allthing or nothing.
to travel and return,
fat-bellied with poems,
of this i dream there, i sit on clean white gravel concrete bench and the West West West for ever going out sand bars like the clouds at RathTrevor and
that cold taste that's never gone that makes diesel and rust taste like childhood a bumble bee round and round my head that wind's cold when you sit still and what bird is that laughing under and around the gulls so far away now dark grey
spine overhead forms i'm screwed waiting here out side the closed clinic on the cold bench and
i would love
to return here,
fat-bellied with poems
from younger yellow suns and not too far of ones
maybe California or a bit of Oregon
and then back to here, here where there is only
an old red Mustang i thought
i knew might be the nurse's following itself away sound
some down this old
old slow curving
cold, that wind
road sound gone
it had a white top on
and in the distant
silent yards
a nailgun:
clack, once
clack.
and overhead a slow jet
and one more car yet
it hasn't rained yet but
it looks
like
it
is going to be
cold and wet
between the trees a top
the mountains three peaks all treed and
many hills away
this is a big island
that is a cold wind
all these trees and memories of smell seem like
Christmas for a second, but then the light warms a little
and i smell somebody's lawn.
Crows now and
a million small birds
and a seagull
and pinecones and shit
it's spring
someone has cut something up
somewhere, someone is building
a deck
clanking a ladder now can't catch it all, at all
and still I would arrogantly
crawl, beg to return here,
fat with poems,
on my belly with the big bugs here
smelling stone and grass and heather
here
comes a truck, i'm
fucked if i'll waste it - gone, might as well write on - but
the silver
2010.
to travel and return,
fat-bellied with poems,
of this i dream there, i sit on clean white gravel concrete bench and the West West West for ever going out sand bars like the clouds at RathTrevor and
that cold taste that's never gone that makes diesel and rust taste like childhood a bumble bee round and round my head that wind's cold when you sit still and what bird is that laughing under and around the gulls so far away now dark grey
spine overhead forms i'm screwed waiting here out side the closed clinic on the cold bench and
i would love
to return here,
fat-bellied with poems
from younger yellow suns and not too far of ones
maybe California or a bit of Oregon
and then back to here, here where there is only
an old red Mustang i thought
i knew might be the nurse's following itself away sound
some down this old
old slow curving
cold, that wind
road sound gone
it had a white top on
and in the distant
silent yards
a nailgun:
clack, once
clack.
and overhead a slow jet
and one more car yet
it hasn't rained yet but
it looks
like
it
is going to be
cold and wet
between the trees a top
the mountains three peaks all treed and
many hills away
this is a big island
that is a cold wind
all these trees and memories of smell seem like
Christmas for a second, but then the light warms a little
and i smell somebody's lawn.
Crows now and
a million small birds
and a seagull
and pinecones and shit
it's spring
someone has cut something up
somewhere, someone is building
a deck
clanking a ladder now can't catch it all, at all
and still I would arrogantly
crawl, beg to return here,
fat with poems,
on my belly with the big bugs here
smelling stone and grass and heather
here
comes a truck, i'm
fucked if i'll waste it - gone, might as well write on - but
the silver
2010.
