Monday, August 13, 2012

Wet Kindling from an Orchard of Wooden Spoons

Hey! Remember when that cracker went into a Sikh temple and killed a bunch of Sikhs? Lordy, eons ago. Sheesh, I can remember when Mitt Romney named Paul Ryan his VPOTUS nominee. Rereading Vollmann's Fathers and Crows (I have an extra copy if you're first to say please)  reminds me of story's mysteries, how THIS turns to this turns to            depending not only who tells the tale but how often, telephone-gamed into unamendable lore in the rare case it's not forgotten. Don't worry, I won't play either Tones on Tail or Motherfucking Love and Rockets.


Stuart Dybek

They were nearing the end of their story.
The fire was dying, like the fire in the story.
Each page turned was torn and fed
to flames, until word by word the book
burned down to an unmade bed of ash.
Wet kindling from an orchard of wooden spoons,
snow stewing, same old wind on the Gramophone,
same old wounds. Turn up the blue dial
under the kettle until darkness boils
with fables, and mirrors defrost to the quick
before fogging with steam, and dreams
rattle their armor of stovepipes and ladles.
Boots in the corner kick in their sleep.
A jacket hangs from a question mark.

1 comment:

  1. Post-PSG Galactico Redux (I'm having a paper bag ready if they meet Real or Barca in a knockout tie), Arsène doesn't look so nutty, though if a reconstituted G-14 told Michel to fuck off, Arsenal would still find a way to not win Champions the Lesser, though UEFA will just come up with their own version of the Bird exception to soothe savage oil magnates.

    Shit, that was unwieldy as a stump speech.