Raymond Farr

                                             Hurdling the Grave of Each Moment

The obvious gambit is
Almost always the wrong gambit

& the wrong gambit is only a shadow 
We follow out of the deep grass 

& onto the cunning blank page
The luck of too many rabbits

Like the meaning of something I was 
Supposed to have found written there—

This clotted eye shaping itself to 
The perfect shape of the world!

                    & while dreamers are 
Dreamers only while hurdling 

The grave of each moment 
Each moment is a corpse, waking 

Mid-autopsy—& so I hesitate—
What else can I do?

The Bees There are Five or six Or seven bees Still left on The corpse In the window & I am the Quintessential Existential American Movie hero— The strong Silent type— Bruce Willis I guess Sly Stalone… I don’t know… I walk over To the corpse In the window I throw Open The curtains & shoo Away the Evil bees & So He Sometimes Failed to Act Definitively & because Johnny Was in the basement & no one ever touched him He sang “the pump don’t work ‘cause The vandals took the handle” & this made him powerful & strange & because this strangeness Was strange to him & didn’t always Become him & though poetry Was a better teacher to him than death Or the false teacher of his shame & because he wasn’t just Another dumb guy named Buzz Or Wally or Jack—but a lyric poet Throwing the burning flower Of his words into the void— He sometimes failed To act definitively Our Next Move
After seeing                Apocalypse Now               
Last night I dreamt a tiger Stalked me from room to room—a god in an empty house! & I woke up screaming. & when I tell him this, Noah only Moans, “The horror, the horror!” mocking me with his impatience. But the gesture has only a poem’s venal audacity, & I’m so exhausted— A digitally re-mastered version of the self as hoax. & there’s this illusion of a single Vietnamese Face floating somewhere in the crowd just several heads behind us. “But if the point is never get out of the fucking boat…,” says Noah— The crowd herding itself out into the exaggerated emptiness— & into the vertigo of lights & traffic—of murderers murdering Murderers—“Then what’s our next move?”
Remembering Perspectives on the Pleasures of Excess 1: I see 2 heads Saying nothing & there is no Heart-blinding life Of the purely figurative! No mirrored bells In the bright afternoon! Just a jolly rancher’s Best last laugh At shucks, I so thought I would say it Just a blank circle Where dialogue should go But no dialogue! Just 60 white hens Scattered on a highway Construction site It’s how music— The 9 broken feet Of our waltzing— Becomes the crux The ________ Of a concept We abandon While dancing— One leg for The end of The world! 2. 3 days we Watched The silent movie Of the earth No music To burden us Only the same Black & final Word scrawled Across the green & white fences Of the lives We claimed The stars like An audience Moved slowly Away from us— Dry stones lining The grey dusk 3 days a dark Face hid its Strange teeth In the bright Shadow of The moon 3 days The drab Bungalows Shone with Our absence Enigmatic 1. the last time I saw Giselle she was reaching for the Pepsi can that had been sweating on the night stand 2 hours— the single word Enigmatic scrawled on the bosom of her t-shirt a storm cloud with a sexy lightning bolt etched into the E in Enigmatic 2. & now I am nothing— just a shadow in the small enclosure where the dog’s been asleep in the sunlight— its head raised apprehending the sky 3. I have left the door open & wind is a broom now sweeping the light of tomorrow into the house It is autumn & I am 60 I leave papers down for the pups & freshen their bowls I want to paint everything the dog lying all day in the sunlight sees but I convulse looking into its eyes 4. & suddenly I’m thinking how calling Giselle my muse would be like calling the tiny mouse living in my scrotum father

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 for /Word, & elsewhere. Raymond is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog, http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com & The Helios Mss, theheliosmss.blogspot.com.
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