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How |
This is not for the
puny.
This is not for the harlots
of academia
who'd sell their souls for a Pushcart, this is
for the crazy,
the freaked, the boozed-up
without-booze and battered beyond words
by the scrape of jackboot consonants, but are nevertheless
hugged hungry
by the softsoft vowels that bind the wounds
between: I mean
the lovers
of language alone: the hellcats
howling the midnight buzz from trash cans lids
of their own making, bleeding
purple, orange moonlight revelations, seeing angels
on the inside of the eyelids, wanting to write it out, write them
out of the eyes and get them down
for good
and keeps. This is
for the creeps
without degrees, who nonetheless hear music in John Donne
enough
to bring on sounds of fog and loss from the pure
leapt
love of it. This is a man
racing a freight train
caring
not a whit what will be made of tense
agreement; verbs are lustful always, in any form, poured straight
from the bottle, gerunding to hell and back the 'ing, ing, ing' of
active, singing
like
choir
tenors
then slipping the long, thin blade of
present
between the slatted ribs; ribs that Adam had
as he longed for something and bayed beside the wolf
who was, in the time before the fall- a friend,
and under
stood
his wretched hungers: first
for woman, then for god, then for something else that
- something- I'm trying to type it out here- afraid that if I
stop the words
will turn to death, but now,
right now
these words are breath
and the rack of God and His holy thrum, and
wicked devilment
through all, my ears worn
shiny
from the sounds. I need
to get a least a part of it down before I go, but how?
copyright 2005
Karen Corcoran
Dabkowski |
