Tuesday, February 20, 2007

The Laugh



Insomniac stars dimly glim,
sand on creased, sweltering sheets.
That wet wool against the skin

is only air, only heat.
Little moves in the dull hum
of window units, only a fleet

delirium of moths, numbed
under the sodium vapor lights
to the bats’ methodical ad libitum.

The odd car, sealed tight
on a machined bubble of May,
vents mephitic fahrenheit.

These are the hydrocarbon days,
this is life’s toxic ooze;
now we while our time away

with G and T and BTUs,
to damp the spinal xylophone’s
abominable bugaloos.

Laughter splashes cobblestone,
ripples out to gently rock
the huge inhuman black alone.


5 comments:

Atyllah said...

Boy, you carve your words so well! Wry wit, unbelievable imagery. Could I be in awe?

Minx said...

Awe? Awe? Not sure I ever want to write poetry ever again with you as a neighbour. Do you think you could move your blog somewhere else and give the rest of us a chance?

Debi said...

Reading your beautiful words always makes me feel like I'm using a completely different set of tools to do my carving. Mine are blunt and crooked.

Splurgeldy bifflebanks. See?

pundy said...

That truly is one of your best, John. "Dimly glim". Brilliant. In fact the whole poem is brilliant.

You've got to do something about getting these published. They send shivers down my spine.

Cailleach said...

yes, get these published!