Thursday, November 25, 2010

How about this -- opening poem in Jerry Rothenberg's Cincealments & Caprichos


for Clayton Eshelman

Words imprinted on a sign
by Goya glowing
white against a surface
nearly white:
"the sleep of reason
that produces monsters."
He is sitting on a chair
his head slumped
resting on his arms
or on the marble table,
pencil set aside,
his night coat open
thighs exposed.
All things that fly at night
fly past him.Wings that brush an ear,
an ear concealed,
a memory beginning
in the house of sleep.
His is a world where owls
live in palm trees,
where a shadow in the sky
is like a magpie,
white & black are colors
only in the mind,
the cat you didn't murder
springs to life,
a whistle whirling in a cup,
gone & foregone,
a chasm bright with eyes.
There is a cave in Spain,
a feral underworld,
where bats are swarming
among bulls,
the blackness ending in a wall
his hands rub up against, a blind man in a painted world,
amok and monstrous
banging on a rock.

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