POETRY
|
POET:
|
|
POEMS: |
|
more
POETS
|
AfricaIt was one of those twenty paged days. When stuff was this n' that and a li'l in between. For one, the black man had descended. And I was carried back to africa, never having to walk . . . he carried me there. Peace, be still. I could only lean back and remark at the tremendous bass of the mothra overhead. How could a hole get so big? The boy next door was digging all night. He had bought a new shovel and aimed to try it out that there evenin'. That man could put up a fight with those coy grins of his. After the hole was dug, he walked past me and I could smell the work on him. I would like to eat his forearms -- they look like turkey legs.
A year or so. The wine just dripped dripped and nobodies mouth was more fixed. A boy came in, a boy went out. Always to the greenest park bench and always in the dark.
So we can buy beer now . . . the money is all here. Enough for a few of those melted plastic rainbows, eh? No one should have to shock themselves like you do. We will all just sleep in until september. Ahhh. That man again -- accompanied by two very dark and probing eyes. Those are the kind that can look at the inside back of your head and still not see themselves. You four o' clock in the mornin' bitch.
Here on the bay in eskimo temperature. I'm a grannie blanket girl -- but if grannie could see me now! I listened to the same thing a hundred times since -- hearing in SO NEW every tick tock
the bell chimes
Keeping busy. Boo now.
There was this time of a dream -- a forever tunnel made in patterns of hieroglyph and sanskrit doo dah. That dream in cold lakes and moonlight like cream. Vivid now pausing. Livid better yet.
No one talks to this song. It is keeping up the fodder.
So . . . and africa with its warm breath withstanding.
tick tock tick tock. Bell in the purest ding.
Top More Livingston Other Poets