Saturday, January 4, 2014


Sunk deep in his wasp nest head,
his eyes peer out through holes
in the gray, papery skin.
Body a bundle of wet scabs, cuts of meat
soaking through his brown paper garments,
bound with twine, scribbled on in black
grease pencil, chucked into
a splintery basket of ribs and wicker,
the whole mess teetering
on two spindly sticks
that tread carefully across the hard ground, 
wobbling with every step
The rag of burlap tossed across his shoulders
and secured with a scrap of wire
whips and twists like a flag in a gale
In his arms, he cradles an anvil
wrapped in crackling newspaper
as if it was an infant
Though it threatens to drag him down
he pats its head and rocks it,
moaning a thin, dry, tuneless lullaby
as he crosses the fields, 
leaving no tracks in the frozen ruts and furrows
of what used to be
a country 

1 comment:

  1. My aesthetic sense is certainly frail... but I think this is darn good. It has a concision when measuring the imagination of the "End". The concrete displacing of the bio-body trekking toward a socio-political statement. My only possible useful comment is to play with the line breaks a bit.

    affections and praise

    uncle frank