Monday, July 25, 2005

stopped. cry

a new poem after Scott Glassman

stopped. cry

you return to the tender. bloodsing. a victor in sending. what could be billowing. quagmire. pile. complacent burial of mango flesh. in the shallow. pitch. slide of the long distant cry. it winds into drums without you. think of calendars. mondays in tubular bliss. a raincoat of lightning in a storm of ink. i know that it takes a filament. flip. back outward. mystery only on. not like a sun, like a crater. wine, licorice. wish in a field. the last taste is still here

1 comment:

Scott Glassman said...

i like how the title is interrupted, like a true extension of the poem, which is beautiful . . . that lingering sensuousness "the last taste is still here" and "burial of mango flesh" wow! . . . i'm reading it listening to music by Ian Brown (who I've never heard before), which makes me feel i'm out in a desert somewhere at dusk, things taking on a life of their own. you know what i like also is the separation of words, language, from voice-- they live "billowing outward" "winding into drums". as if the act of writing, utterance, is itself courting shamanistic power . . . :-) please post more!