Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Harold Stanley-Oda, 2006-2008


Wakes me up to run
grassy fawning little dust
where he digs a hole
fig or gingko
it’s scaly on the back of my neck
the chewed corners of books
quietly in the grip
of a louder-type development
the head cocks and the eye
from the side of the head
implacable, as sea-green as dirt

equally biological
coffee spilt on the needlepoint birches
how is the being noble going?
It’s peopling questions.
The tomato horn worm;
when you cut it in half
it squirts green blood.
Our morning buzzards
between telephone and cypress
are the greased air;
the nose constantly
working a patched-together sense,
brokedown, of the scenario—
for once the mockingbird
is quieter than his wings.

To watch and watch and so
to turn and turn again
this desert view from all sides
more cool this year – I’m scared
it’s a form of respect I been working on
where twists the story
like his speed in leaping
could it be heard
the way we heard?
Respect’s not an easy hole to dig
to cancel a cancelling wind
timothy hay floats in the mug
the scene quivers foxtails
we were all having a sweat together
including the alley’s sumac
the heat left his ears
in food-destroying weather
full of slack translations
the weird creases bodies get
so much in my nose.

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