What was once a particular cow
decomposes, ribs finger the sunlight, body
now a leather blanket, flesh picked coyote-clean.
What we had earlier labeled “flat tire”
was the thrumming of tumbleweed
caught and locked in a stasis of dragging.
The ragweed is cut low and the garlic
grows beneath magpies. A woman’s voice
lilts slowly cross this back porch
unrecognizable for the time lapsed.
//
Unrecognizable, for the time lapsed
lilts slowly cross this back porch,
grows beneath magpies, a woman’s voice.
The ragweed is cut low and the garlic
caught and locked in a stasis of dragging.
Was the thrumming of tumbleweed
what we had earlier labeled “flat tire”?
Now a leather blanket, flesh picked coyote-clean,
decomposes, ribs finger the sunlight, body
what was once a particular cow.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.