Snow for April 1, fine, but I want something crazier: egg thief in a tree, yellow dwarf for a sun, a message in lights from every false god.
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
Snow for April 1, fine, but I want...
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fart apodictically, abscissal flit tickled by tits, zonk-buffin’ glop twick, scraggly trapezoidal jigsaw, shittim thew, twiffler muzzle, dwarf bovine percolator, cylindrical eggcorn cheval, klatch of flouncing blowpipes, schmooseoisie wattle, hypoploid wrang-wrang sphericity, oniomania of the dischuffed loof suckling spurge-inducing vertigo, shades of drab fap fap fap zippy-zapped thru death’s blurry trill in the distance — nearby, a crazier pink hole
There are so many egg thieves.
It may be how we began
our own career of rapine,
and we still like to start our day
with a stolen Icarus or two,
some children of flight, yoked
to our gratification.
Something crazier?
A yellow dwarf for a sun,
who only hints at evening
of her rage for destruction,
how she intends to swell, and redden,
and snatch us from the nest.
Not now, but soon; soon,
as she reckons it.
Gods are never false. You can hear them
intoning the lines of Polonius:
“… as the night the day
thou canst not then be false to any man.
So there.” And then they hawk and spit,
a bit of April snowfall for a joke.
Still, there’s always someone
cracked enough to climb
the legs of Tonans, trembling in the dark.
Crawl up and hide behind his eyes,
(after leaving a terror-pile
of steaming scat behind), thinking
that in the morning, when the marketplace is full,
he’ll think of something — something,
somehow, for his god to say.
You capture the thick and steamy well. :)
Hey, Dave, is it okay that I copied the whole tweet/post over at mole?
Of course!
Thanks! I kinda thought it would be, but I thought I should model good manners for our studio audience :-)
Letter to the Street Where I Grew Up
(City Camp Alley, Baguio City)
Dear alley bent like an L, shaped like an old
god’s crooked elbow, decorated with clotheslines
heavy with wash– Nearly thirty, I skidded down
your last few meters in reverse, learning to drive
a stick shift and nearly knocking over the island
of trash bins swarming with tribes of blue-black
flies. The neighbors came to their front steps
to heckle and hoot, disturbing the chickens
kept in rusted cages in each yard: the way
they carried on with cackling, you’d think
there was an egg thief in each tree. Almost
a lifetime since I’ve left, but still I see the vivid
verdigris of rusted roofs, the graveled lane
where children sat in empty lading boxes,
then tilted themselves into the wind–
And so have I. Years later, I startle
from sleep or wakeful dream, thinking
the dwarf yellow sun brings artifacts
from that other time: a map, directions
written in code by unfaithful gods.
~ Luisa A. Igloria
04 01 2011
Oh, man. If I’m very good, do I get to be a Luisa in my next life?
Only if I get to be a Jedi master in the next :)
Deal
[...] directions written in code by unfaithful gods. —Luisa A. Igloria 04 01 2011 In response to today’s Morning Porch entry. Series Navigation«Not Yet There Filed in Guest writers, Poems & poem-like things and [...]