A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 25, 2008 || 9:50 pm

unfinished, raw, but ready enough

(appended with Here Is Why Insomnia)

I am dying to sing something beautiful

over you, into you, about you;

Here now is the want

to trail off notes with

the curve of my ankle,

to float measures via

the wisp of hair at my neck,

to illustrate the primal backbeat by

the meat of my thighs.

I long to soar across steady bars on

the lightest caress of my fingertips.

My muscles into the coda again and again,
toes tiptoeing the silences between with mastery.

I imagine crafting

delicate melodies with my eyelids,

a lullaby with my backbone,

low wails emanating from my wrists.

There would my chin keep time,

letting my shoulders find their tone

and my hips shore up breath.

All so that my scapula can scream the exact pitch

which your name hums on in my every part.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

It is coming a veritable flood here. Thank you, oh Miss Fay. We have been so dry for so long. That sort of thing has a sly effect on the people, even if they don’t realize it.

Summer tomatoes are the worst they’ve ever been. Mister Robert brags on having to pump out his back yard fish pond twice in five hours. “Save that water,” I joke with him, “we’ll need it probably sooner than later.”

We have an entire closet devoted to just-in-case food storage. This week powdered eggs arrived. I must admit that it slinks in the back of my brain, the notion that some of the powdered things will be useless sans water. Will there be enough water?

We have bullets, too. I only want them for protection; I fear ever having to use them to attain something of sustenance. Something out of have to. Should the world become that place, though, I think I would. But I would admonish the children to cover their eyes and ears first.

If it ever comes to that, that is.

12 worked it out »

  1. Geek 8.26.2008


  2. Kellie 8.26.2008

    I like it, your eyes are looking to the future while your feet are planted firmly in the present.

  3. Punk Rock Dad 8.27.2008

    Loving your stuff.

  4. that girl 8.27.2008

    I love this..you’re good.

    As for the disaster thing..it’s funny the mention of bullets – it makes my plan b come to mind. My plan b involves getting my family to a special spot in the Ouachita mountains..near a clear river, a helicopter’s ride away from society, trails and caves I’m familiar with ..I realize it’s very weird to have a plan b, but there’s something in me that needs one – should bad, bad things ever happen here.

    The aftermath of Katrina horrified the country – we feel so civilized and protected and looked after.

  5. Jettomatika 8.27.2008

    It is in no way strange to have a plan of the bee nature.

    I have been saying since long about nineteen ninety-four that me and mine are going to form our own little tribe In The Middle Of Somewhere Scarcely Looked At.

    There, or an island in the South Pacific.

  6. Captain Dumbass 8.27.2008

    I live beside a massive subduction zone, can see an active volcano from my house and live below sea level. I’d love a plan B, but really…

    Now if we’re talking zombie epidemic, well that’s a different story.

    Your stuff is great.

  7. Coelecanth 8.29.2008

    I’ve got a couple of boxes of homesteading type books. What can I say? Come the apocalypse I’m gonna need reference materials.

    Part of our decision to move to that particular small town was that it has plentiful water and is in a food growing region. In the next decade or so being near your food source is going to be scary important.

  8. chris robinson 8.29.2008

    I like the poem, but it doesn’t feel done yet. The body as an instrument where you can “trail off notes with the curve of my ankle,” is sensual, flirty, and playful. There’s music within (be careful here though because people immediately think gastrointestinal sounds and miss the soul of the soul), and between bodies too. I have no Plan B; there is a large can of tuna in the cupboard that was the full extent of my Y2K plan. God knows I live already in the middle of nowhere.

  9. redclay 8.30.2008

    not plan b, but just the portry.

    been looking for a poem a friend of mines cellmate wrote in prison.

    years in, and decades to go.

    his love, his dove, his darlin.

    all his want and love and wistfullness into it, if he could just manage to get her right. just right, how she looked for him, at him.

    it was almost like having a window.

    a destination.

  10. redclay 8.31.2008

    close enough

    my woman by robert smith

    My woman’s hair is the fingerprint of possibility.

    It is carved of cedar and wildflower; each yearning shaft whispers its

    neighbor’s name.

    My woman’s eyes keep steam locked in cool quartz;

    they are vents for the rivers of her innermost drain.

    My woman’s lips are twin sacks of blood bearing their own pulse and spine.

    They have salt that stings like the claw of God.

    My woman’s throat is a throbbing column,

    home of the ack-ack purr,

    the ice cream bomb.

    My woman’s breasts are logical, precise.

    They instruct spheres in perfection.

    At night they turn to me in orange

    parabolas of electricity.

    My woman’s waist is full of cords

    of what she is, of sweet mint milk,

    the breath of lakes, the cough of grass.

    My woman’s groin sings her breasts awake.

    It is the vault of butter, the chalice of fur,

    a cave where neon seethes and sighs

    My woman’s thighs are two sleek geese

    drunk with the warm Pacific; they are young foxes

    learning to baffle shape.

    My woman’s feet keep roots sunk to the juice

    hid in rationed cup of hours. They pour like

    Chinese glass.

    My woman’s form is bottle

    of chum and glide, a hat

    full of bunnies. It is a border

    too brief to sum the multiplications

    of this woman.

  11. Jettomatika 8.31.2008

    (solomon’s song for the heathern, really)

  12. redclay 9.2.2008

    nothing new under the sun, huh?


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