Sunday, October 17, 2010

Kinder- Und Hausmärchen Without A Nightlight

The trees muy ansiosos tried—
they couldn't locate their fingertips the
dehydrated hands
the xylem & phloem cracked skin's surfacing through they

clutched shovels—
& maybe this was the answer— &
stove-pipe hats the crowns ripped up the geese
flew out these chimneys

(grandmama's feathers scattered a mortal cough
rousted—was this my childhood— the
trout à tort et à travers
lacustrine etc air streaked the— why

wicked birds roosted in a
bride's eyes— a wish dizzier was what it was
than a newspaper hat aswirl in the well's
pneumonia— first there was the air

then there was sky too higher—
what comes next
(quartz river with its grave robbers & seamed eyes'
zwitterig red trees— a novena

candle smoldered jaune in that
kitchen window (on
young trees the bark is smooth &
gray-brown becoming scaly

& furrowed with maturity— (my
grandmama's
lace schrecklich curtains waving— what nerve—
inflamed like a hangnail hands burned

campfires— they tried I said
to loiter like toughs smoking
bones— trout streaked
silver shovels shoveling rivers was this

my childhood (hands
splintering grasping the spoon o the
bird's nest soup
(no one sleeps

no one sleeps at last
except grandmama she's the house asleep
in the trees— muy ansiosos— a roost
where is this the Black Forest




Jack Hayes
© 2010

2 comments:

patteran said...

Leroi Jones said, "It's the sound that matters", and this one rattles along in fine style, spinning off images like a firework. There are traces here for me of Captain Beefheart, whose word-pictures have long outlasted memory of the more tortured syntax of the music!

John Hayes said...

Hi Dick: Hey, I'll take Captain Beefheart! Thanks.