Friday, May 18, 2012

poem: winnowing

overstuff them yammy
taters, boy:
you runnin' on thin
gruel, thin rations;
the feast is cheap
nothing less than all:
heart, bones, marrow
(marrow bone)
heaven worn
heaven bone
a miscalculated heart
the dyscalculia of pain &
inventory, inventories
lost to the thin waves
anatomical displays
of the soul's dis-
she carries home
the bait, and leaves
you wondering
you wander down
that long road
gathering up your
thinnest spaces
the feast may roll - you're
nearer - the feast may
call you home - near . . . er -
spawnburgers on the home
stretch - near . . . er . . . -
isometrics of the western slopes, the fine thin
brigade of your
wayfare, played cross-
ways, cross-
roads, cross-
ing to the other side
the ladies of sorrow,
the ladies of the canyons,
the ladies of pain,
the ladies of less than never,
the ladies of grace,
the ladies of the finest


Blogger anno said...

Another brilliant tarantella (not sure if this is right, but it's the first word that came to mind). Enjoyed all the syncopated twists, the breathless drop from opening line to closing benediction.

2:14 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Anno: It may be more of a Tarantino, but I'm happy to dance . . . Predictably, started with one thing in mind, got pulled (tarantino'd?) in another direction.

4:40 PM  
Blogger Dee Martin said...

Joni playing in the background, singing in the background, chewing on the gristle and sending her influence down the mainline. Wondering what condiments are best served with spawnburgers and over stuffed yammy taters. Hungry now and not for no salty soup :)

4:48 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: I'll join you in summa that no salty soup. Joni and gristle: that's a lovely combo platter.

5:09 PM  

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