and the poem spun past gauges and wire...
joel harris, worrybead, the gods of victory
Lyrics
go on and tow, tow the tractor line.
as the years seen waste and rise,
and a fair share of shine,
and for the record, you can quote,
it's been mine.
and the poem spun past
gauges and wire...
(the spoken word bit, in the
background, is as follows:
dumb slow work
this hot work is done slowly;
a steel claw for a hammer,
25 pounds of squinting elbows and
3 foot metal rods tweaked,
flattened at ends, and at odds.
like a christ-pose, crossed,
i make X's with shadows
if only to find an image that
lasts out from under this
dumb, slow work.
this is eliot teaching me
to make all that i can of
all that i lack,
this is wang bu: mangled legs,
his white toothed wisdom;
halve nothing and have nothing.
and halving nothing, make everything.
he said it first and its true;
it is a /good/ way.
and were my own legs bent back
and were i adrift alone on an isle,
i would sing loud, high
and i would show my white teeth.
i would grow wise.
still...
this is me wishing...
the buzz of an air tool wakes me--
one bit of smoke clears while
another leaps from a dumb rubber tire,
whining air is a sophist's breath
spitting rubber dust into my eyes,
laying hot streaks along my arm;
under this heat, i jump and a line is lost.
i watch the poem slip, tumble
slo-mo past gauges and wire
to break open on the ground.
but i am still okay.
the sun's strong arm on my back
pushes me briefly from my work,
dreaming, to a patch of cat tails
leaping from a small, brackish pond.
typha latifolia--
this is something that i've read,
a bit of country lore!
breaking one near the base
i lift it to my mouth to
tongue the place where the leaves meet,
just there, around the base.
it is tasteless and fine,
it numbs in perfect time.
and, regaining the line,
i am grateful for this numb tongue,
for this slow work, dumb--
sage advice and country lore,
the breaking of poems spun slo-mo
past gauges, past wires.
)
and the poem spun past
gauges and wire...
but i'm still okay.
