Friday, August 27, 2010

George Harrison VS. George Harrison


Montgomery Clift

The passage money has been borrowed from Arthur,
now the clouds rise and don't come back:
this is a new kind of science,
one that requires none of our attention.
A will is altered, immediately.
A motorcycle roars over the hills.
There is nothing to consider.
The man paces the room: it's in black and white.
The man gets up and points to a dark spot
on the rug: all the dark spots getting bigger.
He says, "I think you both should know this."
Do we all talk into the darkness?
Are we all scoundrels?
The sky looks good in a suit,
in a moustache or not.
In a few days a doctor will come.
In a few days no one will remember the clouds.
No one will recall how Aunt Alice
got drunk in the kitchen making soup.
It was really good soup. It was a really strong drink
that got us drunk in the winter of our discontent
that lasted into the summer. All our departures
were imminent; our plans were secrets
and written in trees, in plain cloth
we spread on the grass: cheese by the lake.
A long coversation begins on the stairs.
It's in black and white: it ends in the clouds.
"Are you blaming me for trying to protect you?"
Protected by love or contempt?
We find our tongues at last.
Emma the Cat sleeps in front of the TV:
black and white clouds and trees,
a wedding present across the sea.
She dreams of California, we think.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Bad Air

This the time of year when the pundits turn green and start frothing
from the trees. Didactic venom turns the ground brown.
Didactic poems turn things a little less puce.
Didactic poems confused and turning,
now into the light, now into the light.
A very long line forms over the horizon.
This ottoman in the receiving room cost a lot of money.
Industry settles on its haunches and licks its snout.
The workers file out and the next morning
not as many file back in and those who do
don't look like they're full of fiery golden dust
which is exactly how we should all look, mostly.
The playground gets swallowed in shadow.
The playground gets swallowed by the sea.
Don't tell people what's happening right now to the sea!
If only they knew...well, nothing much.
Maybe if it were on ESPN or something.
Nothing much happens at dawn, just the sun,
the clouds, which later today will split open like the skull
of a raccoon foraging in a great blue bucket of light.
The bees forage in the raccoon's mouth,
the mouth of the river spilling light
into the greeny delta in lots of little shapes,
some mask-shaped, some shaped like teeth,
some spilling now into the alleys and driving up
the price of wheat and flour but not the cell phone plans
or the newest smart device that plugs straight
into your you-know-where but still has toxic
batteries which run counter and back into your system.
The president runs screaming from the podium!
Dear god! The president has been turned into a beer commercial!
Expensive shoes! Expensive oil! A pale-green horse!
You're nowhere to be seen! Where have you gone!
On your island of dirty shrink wrap and Taco Bell
there are no bees in sight, just a lot of bee-shaped sinkholes,
a lot of grant applications, which makes your island
a kind of hell, one with a big mountain in the center
guarded by angels with swords made out of fire,
angels in silver robes giving you the hairy eyeball
every time you trundle by, your arms full of coconuts.
On closer inspection, their swords are made of gold. Of money.
On closer inspection, your arms are full of arrows: now what?

Monday, August 2, 2010


A brand-new issue of InDigest is online for your reading and ruminating pleasure and edification.

It features poetry from Ronaldo Wilson , Steven Karl, Becca Klaver, Martin Rock, Emma Bean, Bianca Stone, and more. New narratives from Abby Frucht, Kyle Francis, and Sam Osterhout. Essays from Careful's Eric Lindley and Rogue Valley's Chris Koza. Plus audio stories, InDialogues, online broadsides, poetry paintings, galleries, and more.

Get it all here: Thanks for reading!