by Stu Watson
So what is it to us who stand
secure in all our arrogance
upon an edge which time
with her sharp way
will soon erode
and breathe in with each stroke
red molecules that spit?
So what is it to us who stand
secure in all our arrogance
upon an edge which time
with her sharp way
will soon erode
and breathe in with each stroke
red molecules that spit?
Abigail should have her own statue on the stony top of Bunker Hill,4
a dozen children at her feet, a few founders, a few presidents,
a rifle at her side, and books stacked waist high.
Behind her a woman wearing a banner for The Vote,
a black man signing his name in the front of his Bible.
We’ll go back
to my apartment and
open the door and the
kids’ faces will pop
with happiness. They’ll
run toward us, ram their
heads into our stomachs,
so eager to be held...
and who are we to stand
displaced in all our promise
as if the legends don’t continue
and we have not met regret?
I started calling
My inbox a party because
It sounded more fun
That way to
Wade thru bodies
Like messages I had to manage...
It was dusk, and the statue of Edward Snowden
was working overtime to track the deletions
in my last email to you...
I used to be like Greta Garbo and now I’m not.
Lost my flair for acting and I got hooked off
stage. When Greta talks and she says "Gimme a whiskey,
Kentucky Truck Stop Shower
Nine bucks
gets you a
paper
Take this, and hold it.
May the call be recognized and willing.
Remember, because I can’t remind you enough,
some will simply refuse and one...
I remember your hair's perm fondue
like blonde glass curling in the sun.
It had a northerly associative quality,
something quite remote to these parts.
But I want to have the perfect seizures,
A briefcase of wasp stingers,
A Jansport of howling embryos...
Originally Published May 15, 2013