Raymond Farr
Normal Poem
               I threaten
To break all of
Mother’s teeth
With a hammer
The younger kids
Try not hearing it
They go outside
They cover their ears
Rain, rain, they cry
Scalping it
Drowning it out
               I am 12—
The oldest—mother
Shrugs & hands me
The hammer defiantly
               The sun
Is a tired dragon
Feeding on
Battered young
Boys like myself
               & Father
Has vanished—is
Assumed dead
In the west
               & I have this
Image of my mother
& she’s driving
The little red clown
Car of her sex in
& out of father’s
Shadow
& the hammer
Is like a fire now
Eating away
The flesh of my
Small left hand
& my hand
Is a shaking
Skeleton’s hand
& the children
Keep chanting—
Stones, stones
We are nothing
But stones!
Brain Monkeys
We don’t squeal
So much as we
Eye tree shade forever
The poem is about scraping
The butterfly out
               A scanned man
Dreadlocked & punching
Walks a river
Carefully—
Trees of black deletions
& 8 precise hands
On the grave where
The box lies—
No interpreter!
A Poem We’ve Built a Fence Around
A little black dog
Is sitting beside us
In a mirrored room
& one of us is a poem
The other has built
A fence around
& we’re kind of
Superstitious about
Breaking little hearts
Like the one in me
& death is just a skull
Of blonde wood
You’d better put it
Down or encrust it
With diamonds
The Streets So Pretty in Neon
Where
Light is
We coexist
Happily
A process
Guiding us—
By Time
& by luck—
Towards
Remarkable
Actions
Our every act
A thought
A gesture
We’re
Desperate
To express
No punch line!
No jittery
Hands “On
The verge
Of being
Anarchic”
Just quitting
Work early
To be
With you
The streets
So pretty
In neon
Ourselves on the Scale
                    You know
You look like cancer, right?
Big water torture eyes
& Venus practicing antiquity
On the cheap blow-up, pool-toy
Dolphins in yr pool
                    I mean, it’s a
Particular, forced, formal-wear
Death march we’re on
Up baby-momma’s river of
Habitual scarcity
                    & it’s kind of
Like sulfurous noodle platter
Goodness is what we’re
Getting, when what we
Desire is for death to break
The ice for us
It’s as though we’re putting
Small reasons into words
                    & there are 99 shy
Declarations hooting from
Our asses
Raymond Farr’s poetry books are available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/blueandyellowdogpress His work appears in Otoliths, Caliban On Line Review, Posit, Forklift OH, Word/forWord, & elsewhere. Raymond is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog, http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com & The Helios Mss, theheliosmss.blogspot.com.
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“Who are you?”
“Kristen,” she said.
“Kristen’s a name. Who are you?” the duck asked.
She said, shrugging, “Mommy, Daddy, Leif.”
—Robert Hass
“Kristen,” she said.
“Kristen’s a name. Who are you?” the duck asked.
She said, shrugging, “Mommy, Daddy, Leif.”
—Robert Hass
               I threaten
To break all of
Mother’s teeth
With a hammer
The younger kids
Try not hearing it
They go outside
They cover their ears
Rain, rain, they cry
Scalping it
Drowning it out
               I am 12—
The oldest—mother
Shrugs & hands me
The hammer defiantly
               The sun
Is a tired dragon
Feeding on
Battered young
Boys like myself
               & Father
Has vanished—is
Assumed dead
In the west
               & I have this
Image of my mother
& she’s driving
The little red clown
Car of her sex in
& out of father’s
Shadow
& the hammer
Is like a fire now
Eating away
The flesh of my
Small left hand
& my hand
Is a shaking
Skeleton’s hand
& the children
Keep chanting—
Stones, stones
We are nothing
But stones!
We don’t squeal
So much as we
Eye tree shade forever
The poem is about scraping
The butterfly out
               A scanned man
Dreadlocked & punching
Walks a river
Carefully—
Trees of black deletions
& 8 precise hands
On the grave where
The box lies—
No interpreter!
A little black dog
Is sitting beside us
In a mirrored room
& one of us is a poem
The other has built
A fence around
& we’re kind of
Superstitious about
Breaking little hearts
Like the one in me
& death is just a skull
Of blonde wood
You’d better put it
Down or encrust it
With diamonds
Where
Light is
We coexist
Happily
A process
Guiding us—
By Time
& by luck—
Towards
Remarkable
Actions
Our every act
A thought
A gesture
We’re
Desperate
To express
No punch line!
No jittery
Hands “On
The verge
Of being
Anarchic”
Just quitting
Work early
To be
With you
The streets
So pretty
In neon
Ourselves on the Scale
                    You know
You look like cancer, right?
Big water torture eyes
& Venus practicing antiquity
On the cheap blow-up, pool-toy
Dolphins in yr pool
                    I mean, it’s a
Particular, forced, formal-wear
Death march we’re on
Up baby-momma’s river of
Habitual scarcity
                    & it’s kind of
Like sulfurous noodle platter
Goodness is what we’re
Getting, when what we
Desire is for death to break
The ice for us
It’s as though we’re putting
Small reasons into words
                    & there are 99 shy
Declarations hooting from
Our asses
Raymond Farr’s poetry books are available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/blueandyellowdogpress His work appears in Otoliths, Caliban On Line Review, Posit, Forklift OH, Word/forWord, & elsewhere. Raymond is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog, http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com & The Helios Mss, theheliosmss.blogspot.com.
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