In a sense
is the exact opposite of what we want and
that opposite isn't death
somewhere over a rainbow
you see, it's parabolic.
sometimes stretched out on drugs that make me taller
I sway over two kingdoms of sidewalk concrete adjacent
but over the line. clothes vanish through the magic agency
naked to my brain my genitals hang like a child's drawing
open large enough only for the beam of life to shine through
I trap the living photon and aim it down. my friends say:
you have dropped your handkerchief.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
An Artie Gold Poem
Just cracked open Dennis Lee's anthology New Canadian Poets (1970-85) and found three Artie Gold poems. Art was, at his best, artless in an artful way. Here's one I very much like, and it serves as a fitting epitaph: