Flourescent Frontier
Laryngeal jalopy. Absorbed extraordinary earthenware
Here I am knitting Illinois in full daylight
& this is a picture of a thought
somersaulting through a fragrant weather
of Proustian fudge. Clop, Clop. Car. Daub of jaw
Emotions what are emotions emotions are words
Hum of a dryer in a garage on a chilly day
in February. Ponticello
in conjunction with tremolando. A poem emerging
from a uterus of feathers. Dashboard comb. Air
& circulate & blow out & shape
into acoustic cake. Cuts revolving
over a pavement teeming with fog
Chickadees breaking into priceless syntax. A rhetorical smell
Syllables ideal for glue. The thief of balloons
Opening the door to Sherwood Anderson
Hello Grand Hydraulic Knee I need an apartment in 1563
Constellations of sparks in a grotto of brick
"It's certain that fine women eat
a crazy salad with their meat"
A culture. A Gestalt. A frustum, A fulcrum.
A lovely fable instructing us how to squeeze
silence like snow until the bones of the hand
feel the breath of the void in the billion
crystals of the formative ball. The exhilarating
freedom of locomotion. Blaze of a blazon
A sentence crawling toward a speech of phenomenal heat
prophesied in the pronation of peripatetic plainsmen
who knew the true value of excrement
The hidden voice pulsing within the obdurate
silence of any common object
Thought what is thought thought is the color
of the air between the tines of a fork
on the table of an expensive restaurant
specializing in seafood. Walking. Talking. Writing
is the raw color of ink as it leaves
the pen & enters into abstractual relations
epitomized as pigment & energetic
as a necklace of outboards
Poetry, of course, pays nothing
but emoluments of rapture
pulsing with the pragmatism of night
& the goo of the yolk of allegory
baronial & beautiful as any egg
Copyright © John Olson 1994
|
