[my riches I have squandered. spread with honey]
a song of the prodigal son
my riches I have squandered. spread with honey
the arval bread in my pocket and nary a farthing
lived for a spell among roaches in a rickety squat
between the alcohol detox and the catholic church
peeled my plump white bottom. a sauvignon grape
[now exsiccated: the wizened sultana makes no golden cake]
crouched in the gulleys. wiped with leaves
cooked roadkill: topped with government surplus cheese
snuck in underage at club 21 (2121 21st street, long gone)
wastrel opal-throated bird: a moulting quivers along the pinion
I fear my mucus: its endless volume and amorphous shape
a demon expelling from my lips. the moon wags its tongue
each dull morning the mirror imagines me a future: older misshapen forest: stinging adder and sprawling spider
the way to haven seems interminable. I creak and shuffle
listen, you wilderness: make plain and let me pass
--D. A. Powell
St. Ambrose and Arlinghurst
8 months ago
2 comments:
That is the best poem not by you that I have read since lunchtime. (I taught Shakespare before lunch.)
But really what I want to say is: congratulations! I saw the announcement of your award, under your assumed name! Wonderful!
It's a really good poem, isn't it? And are you reading poems by me over lunch? Hmmm. I've always thought I trended a bit too grotesque for polite company.
And seriously: thanks so much.
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