Raw Poem Post 10
11/20/05 11:06 PM
Untitled Prose Poem 12
Granite outcroppings to the south protect our village from the vapors that ride the swell. Hoarfrost cracks the helmets of cops, soldiers, high-steel riveters. The main source of protein in these parts is the larva of giant, prehistoric dragonflies. Our scientists deny the existence of giant, prehistoric dragonflies. We have no maps of the gray centrifuge that shimmers beyond the mist. Some call it the Crucible Sea. Ancient writs and scripture prevent us from constructing pilings or docks. And yet, giant, prehistoric larvae cling to the pilings. Quartz cliffs stand up to the waves that lunge at us from the West. Every few weeks a Seer emerges from a tomb, a catacomb, a limb or a bomb to tell us that the cliffs are losing the battle. On hearing these pronouncements, we feed the Seer, tell jokes to the Seer, and fill the Seer’s stomach with wine. Then one of us has the Seer by the legs and another gets the arms. One, two, three . . . and the Seer is launched to the waves. Once in a great while, we’ll get a Seer that can play the horn or the sax, some cool jazz or maybe some Latin stabs. These Seers are granted a permanent place in one of our hotels, restaurants, or saloons. We can all take a foreboding omen a little better with a stuttered bumblebee high hat, some brush on the skins, and a smoky walking bass. Mountains of moss and lichen obscure the North. We have no word for the East, but it looms there nonetheless.
Untitled Prose Poem 12
Granite outcroppings to the south protect our village from the vapors that ride the swell. Hoarfrost cracks the helmets of cops, soldiers, high-steel riveters. The main source of protein in these parts is the larva of giant, prehistoric dragonflies. Our scientists deny the existence of giant, prehistoric dragonflies. We have no maps of the gray centrifuge that shimmers beyond the mist. Some call it the Crucible Sea. Ancient writs and scripture prevent us from constructing pilings or docks. And yet, giant, prehistoric larvae cling to the pilings. Quartz cliffs stand up to the waves that lunge at us from the West. Every few weeks a Seer emerges from a tomb, a catacomb, a limb or a bomb to tell us that the cliffs are losing the battle. On hearing these pronouncements, we feed the Seer, tell jokes to the Seer, and fill the Seer’s stomach with wine. Then one of us has the Seer by the legs and another gets the arms. One, two, three . . . and the Seer is launched to the waves. Once in a great while, we’ll get a Seer that can play the horn or the sax, some cool jazz or maybe some Latin stabs. These Seers are granted a permanent place in one of our hotels, restaurants, or saloons. We can all take a foreboding omen a little better with a stuttered bumblebee high hat, some brush on the skins, and a smoky walking bass. Mountains of moss and lichen obscure the North. We have no word for the East, but it looms there nonetheless.
posted by Rhino Benedetti at 11:53 PM
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