CONFESSION OF THE PAID EXPERT: FIVE REASONS TO TRY CHILDREN AS ADULTS & ADULTS AS IF THEY'RE ALREADY DEAD
       

it's why you can't say you need me
to testify beyond the obvious : consider for one
the coexistence of humans & the abundant supply
of high cliffs impulse to leap wound in to eggs
frozen in mud beds to hide shot out of canons
& pirouettes in the steel eyes of the bald & blazed crowd
of VIPs say it: you don't need me for this here try
your own skull-numb & helium-voiced attraction
to any falling thing why deny lush waves? pleasures

owed to must-win losses & irretrievable returns : look :

there she is : corn rowed & powder
puffed & the one upside down in the dark
knees soaked in blood from the plate of spoiled meat
consider the voices of loved ones : wood rasp
on raw nerves never mind what I say stand five
minutes nude in cold rain & write it down verbatim
what you learned about salt & sea wind
up the whetstone slopes of the psyche stand ten
& you'll trade the last glimpse of the living

for a hole in the snow & a smile sliced under a rock : look :

& here you are & no need of me what about
Saturday? forehead on the elm tree you
count to twenty the kids done digging their graves
decide to hide in piles of leaves you know
exactly where to look & you know the odds
are you shouldn't ever turn from the tree : look :

& there you are gone
& the wind's a finger stroke in the hair-thin dark
cut by the red tail of a sight-starved hawk: look :

& there he is: Compte Alphonse de Toulouse-Lautrec

part time falconer full time costumer said :
his breed goes straight back to the Crusades
eyes sharp as sunlight crossed up in holy water
wings quiet as blue smoke in a valley of pine
& the smell of burning wormwood : look : there
he is like all fathers in the hunter's disguise perched
on his son's deathwatch : look : anywhere
but here said : that thing I found wasn't my son
anyone some kind of bright eyed blindness

on a dead-white pillow hard strike from a poisoned mouth
in a hollow dream a stranger in someone else's getup looks

back yellow spots in a shadow quieter than any retracted fang

Tweet

Copyright © 2018 Ed Pavlić All rights reserved
from Live at the Bitter End
Saturnalia Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission