Friday, July 4, 2008

bucky little thing

cold is wet stone and fire in the glowing branches 
touches the golden branches with heat and O the
eagle the eagle that balding eagle lowers his legs
like shorn bonsai trees and descends to silver to
silver may we ever find a liver for prometheus or
myself, for i've plucked away at it like a cellist like
a pelican pecks for days shuffled before one another and
o the sounds in the next room are never muffled,
but pronounced pronounced may the wildcat pounce 
on a rock on a rock, leather shoed british boy on the dock.
and what a bore, what a bore says the forest explorer
these panthers betray themselves slunk languid in the
trees, and, I coming upon nothing more than the 
paper globes of bees.  southern priest, speaking in tongues,
can you not speak of reptile lungs? football men, moving
in lunges, can you not see your into-sin plunges? now, both,
repeat after me: is it for this that i have hunted? is it for 
these crystals, these sun beaten symbols of the drum, these 
murderers wanted, that i have run sharp breath cold through pink
tunnels of respiratory funnels? 

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