Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Monday, February 14, 2011

Look Out (a very rough, rough poem taking a cue from Josh Beckman)

From the way it looks, the view from the mountain
is just as clearly showing me smog
as the trees directly below my foot.
I remember when I was climbing Torres del Paine
I didn't understand
that not all roads that lead to Rome involve trodden-upon footpaths.
Kneeling on gravel, I prayed each time I grabbed a small tree
it'd hold. The phones almost entirely dead,
we communicated through the one computer
at the hostel, where coffee was strong, and delicious.
I suspect upon the moment that clouds fitted
themselves upon those mountains that rain
poured and pounded like the wind and gave
beauty to those towers. I think I read that.
Do you read? Do you take in air in quick sips?
I think that kind of thing is interesting, like how it howls
in zigzags like a terribly disoriented fox
up steep hills and that birch tree peeling like peanut
butter in a cold, cold kitchen.

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