The Gorko Gazette

Tenor

Cannot sing for the life of first person singular.
Wing it for a bit then assert dry desert thirst.

Shit, the cranberry juice passing for blood
on the stiff white T-shirt dribbled yesterday.

No one says that you slept in it but you did so.
Open the mouth wide and let rip the diaphragm.

From where I burrow, birdshot from a shotgun
would awaken my Graham Cracker neighbours.

But I am not disposed to cracking Bakelite clocks
or cantering for sallow pledges of support hose.

Be that as it may, a group of words that merely
fill a line without expressing anything of note—

Be that as it may, the lines continue crawling
toward completion, like a turtle laying eggs in sand.

But everyone knows most of the hatchlings
will never make it to water. Does the turtle know?

The gulls feast, the barracudas gobble, and one
or two of the juniors manages to live a little.

Becoming should be more than shaking off a shell
and looking for a place to sink or swim.

---

Boots On The Ground

Houses in the country, seashores, mountains,
a wont to desire as much as earth mass.
Bear the black mark on your forehead,
the engine behind you runs quietly as
your own soul, fundamental and constant.

A bad taste easily cleansed with ashes
and be quiet at last rampaging thoughts
in the province of atoms not providence,
that harrow stacked between pain and pleasure,
a moment worthy of the void’s applause.

A beast of cognition ejects the self
from that life flow so vibrantly tabled,
so fully causal and birthed in frankness.
But the least of all worries comes
in the form of polished bullhorns.

So walk to this landing and behold
all the torn up fields and broken bones.
One prays for storms to come and cleanse
the stained landscape, or a fire to raze it,
but the best we can hope for is quiet.

About the artist

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Image: Stamp of Indonesia – 1966 – Colnect 259856 – Green Sea Turtle Chelonia mydas.jpeg