thank you carl

 

 

 

I still visit Sanburg sitting among the shriveled souls, just

to hear again him post his unveiled messages of loss,

his informal suggestions of the outdoors in taste and habits/

the coming of the Magi, the epiphanic appearance of the

Christ nature. The textile weave where the filling threads

pass over one and under two to give us that warp cloth

of worth and importance.

 

there is something two fisted about beonging somewhere.

That sharp, vibrant, resonant magic curse that, though exhausted,

rummages the air in that haphazard search for the direction

that wheat should grow, unbeknownst of finish or beginning.

To drink from the same dirty river as the horses or cattle/and

where the clay soiled plows were rinsed.

Thank you Carl.

 

everytime I eat chicken,

I eat the small, hearty, domestic

history of

chickens.

Reviews

[Tree]

Sanburg was a great poet, and you paint with your words an amazing portrait
of what his work meant to you, how it affected you. How you can still link yourself to the poem of a writer with such an everyday act, speaks loudly. Cesar Vellejo's work does that to me sometimes. James Wright, and Ethridge Knight. Lorca. Maybe it is because from time to time a word/a meaning can bury itself so deep into your soul that it grows there, hidden. Only later to sprout.

[Emily B]

just when i think i've learned to love all the nooks and crannies of your splendid voice, you round a corner and i sit mouth gaping at the star shine of it all