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Friday, March 4, 2011

Wyeth-Brandwhyn and two poems


The day was much too warm

To truly be called a Winter’s

Day. Narcissus were in bloom.

The greening of the fields was overloaded

For the time of year, but there it was.

Evening had loaded itself on moisture,

Banked the clouds into sheets,

Stretched them across a valley landscape

And was pushing the sun down behind

The whole thing in poured golds and

metallic hues that could easily have

Been kept and put aside for

late Spring or early Summer. Five

O’clock was not used to handling

This kind of display at all.

The sky was slightly embarrassed

But would never deny that wealth

Of colors and special fashion

Such a rare gem as this could command.

And so it commanded and looking we obeyed.


There is a low wail coming

Up through my skin. When

I listen in, head close

To the radio I can feel

The pulse, the full pulse,

The pulse, pulse of the electricity

In its circuits. I can smell

The ozone. I can tell

It needs flame. Even the music.

Even the announcers voice,

Lofting and falling, selling stereos

And car tires has the stink

Of flame around it. I wish

For evening, a room far away,

The arc of a great bird

Across the sky, etched air.

The wail will have none of this.

It becomes louder and shrill.

The dial begins flickering.

Its mouth full of flame.

It begins to melt.

I quickly pick it up,

Toss it into the air.

The stairs of the angels catch fire.

The air is filled with burning stairs.

There is no way to get to heaven

Any longer.

The fire storm rages down.

It is like dreaming.

It is like moving clouds

Away with one’s hand.

I stand at the top

Of the stairs and look down,

Someone is listening to a radio

So intently

I believe

They are an animal.

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