5/10/09

Everything you touch or taste or listen to or see,
according to this blowhard, has been compromised.

Tell me about the last freshly-slaughtered game you caught and tasted
before the hearth-fire spoiled the taste,
of acorns before you had to roast them.

Talk about the fruit from the trees that dropped in your mouth

about the fish roe and the seeds

about the whitest apple-flesh and the fish in the stream.
How about the place from which you were estranged
about the roadhouses and the charismatic churches
and the commune in which you rolled about among others
the opening seconds of Beatlemania and the years
before the great war when your mother's arm
only got stronger from tugging the milk cow
across the dirt road where the brick library
or wax museum was
the statuettes so real in facial tones you thought the figures
moved, such are the lost arts and the carved
Hummel figurines of the local Gepetto
about grander thoroughfares and greater aspirations