August 26, 2009

The hills have eyes, their trees have lives
Disjointed like a hero
No saga told, no things unfold
To make the ride much finer



Joan Linder, Don't Like Country Music, 2007

The Origin of Baseball
-- by Kenneth Patchen

Someone had been walking in and out
Of the world without coming
To much decision about anything.
The sun seemed too hot most of the time.
There weren’t enough birds around
And the hills had a silly look
When he got on top of one.
The girls in heaven, however, thought
Nothing of asking to see his watch
Like you would want someone to tell
A joke – “Time,” they’d say, “what’s
That mean – Time?”, laughing with the edges
Of their white mouths, like a flutter of paper
In a mad house. And he’d stumble over
General Sherman or Elizabeth B.
Browning, muttering, “Can’t you keep
Your big wings out of the aisle?” But down
Again, there’d be millions of people without
Enough to eat and men with guns just
Standing there shooting each other.

So he wanted to throw something
And he picked up a baseball.


Acquainted with the Night
-- by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


My Los Alamos
-- by Sandra Beasley

My soybeans for your silo,
My pitcher for your infielder,
My roller skates for your cherry bomb,
My first date for your Dairy Queen.

My chute for your ladder,
My coyote for your anvil,
My Chevy for your Mustang,
My Nancy for your Sherlock.

My cops for your robbers,
My secret for your coat lining,
My equation for your explosion,
My grandfather for your enemy.

My motherhood for your mother.
My childhood for your child,
My boy for your girl,
My girl for your girl.

My tongue for your knees,
My breast for your tonsils,
My belly for your big toe,
My feet for your elbows.

My underground for your flight.
My uniform for your atom bomb,
My piece for your war,
My peace for your war.

My dance for your Siberia,
My flowers for your tundra,
My flour for your silo,
My hand for your forgiveness,

My hand for your forgiveness,
My hand for your forgetting,
My first date for your Dairy Queen,
My thinking a fist could forget.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Every morning, and especially on this misty morning in the city of giant shoulders, I look east to the false dawn. Sherwood Anderson

10:51 AM  

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