Tonight, I Move Mountains
In my my southern dreams, there are
mountains that defy God, festooned
with kudzu and scuppernong.
Naked little cherubs float above, squeeze
the vines, and a river of juice
flows beneath my fair-haired legs:
sustenance for my odyssey.
I will follow the ungulate footprints
embedded in the fertile delta and smell
them to determine how alone
I really am.
I will follow the ungulate droppings
and race the scheming sky--a dying
candle, indigo now but darkening.
It can kill baby pilgrims like me:
stopping my molecules with cold
or simply breaking my bones.
I will drink the juice and listen
as bird chirps and leafy wisps
become rhythmic jazz in my mind.
My steps will match the blown
brass and tickled octaves.
I will pass bone-weary prophets
who lie beneath fruitless trees like
squished maggots.
They all smoke cigarettes and
get drunk off sour moonshine:
the moon will shine at night, and
the moon will melt by morning.
I will trudge on for them, for
me, for every sentient soul
once good.
In my southern dreams, the vines
are electro-slippery, judas to my grip.
The rocks will succumb to gravity
faster than gunshots.
The cherubs become sirens, summon
harpies with lugubrious shrills:
Awwwwwwwweeeeeeeeee!
Wyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee?
But, I will drink the juice, and
I will sweat with fire, fear
seeping out of my pores.
I will sing my own songs, my
jazz, and I will not be afraid
to fall beneath the earth.
I was once good, and
I will move mountains
tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment