Table of
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POETA SIN BRAZOS
"yo, poeta sin brazos, perdido
entre la multitud que vomita"
-Federico Garcia Lorca
I knelt by the knee wall
painting with black magic marker
gross defects in the hardwood
my mind overflowing
with flooding lines from Lorca
and the soft piano rites of Mose Allison
This was not the first time
I had been to the Emerald Necklace
in springtime
the red moss
tattooing the bank
like an incision filled with sand
I would visit the Priority Triangle
later that afternoon and buy my wife
a Marla harness just in case
How she loved it when at the Buttery
in our youth I quoted Yeats to her:
"I will arise and come now"
Then, I was Villon, the beloved
rogue, Horne Tooke, the shuttle
cock, Cowper, the shoe horn
"It's time for lunch," said my fey
assistant Izquierda. "For what
do you hunger?" Let's grab some
Vietnam. In aspiration of the dust
I escorted my lithe duende
to the outskirts of Pho King
Bill Yarrow
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THE WHOLE DEBT
just as I was launching my life, extending the web of my friendships, adding
magicians, librarians, architects, horticulturalists, house
lawyers, horse lawyers, CIOs, videographers, EFL flagellants, instructional diviners...
just when the langoustines had me by the throat, when the side exits were all
blocked, when the nacreous clouds began to move in, when the power grid was
on the verge of extinction, when the atrial gas main had not yet ruptured, when
the Mad River was rising, when the edges of my palms were just beginning to
itch...
just when the air was loud with the sound of invisible mockery, when the
world, paralyzed by littleness, was becoming dull, when all the birds headed for
the bourbon hidden in the corn, when cheers of ill will resounded from the
abandoned sawmill, when craven acolytes were craving ions...
just when the sky was dark with birds, the ground black with snakes, the river
choked with otters, the mesa teeming with beetles, the mountains pocked with
bees...
my parents slammed the door of the oven of the soufflé of death and the feisty
yeast of conjured life began to rise
Bill Yarrow
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LESS SCENERY
I.
one mountain has a dedicated cross
the opposite mountain is dotted with hospital-white haciendas
surrounded by the hot avocado of spring trees
over there's the empty mesa
a power plant abuts an arroyo
its parking lot is designed to be invisible to cows
the roofs of Starbucks call out for Dunkin' Donuts
watch out for the pornographic railyards!
watch out for seduced beauty!
accommodation parks, industrial hotels, financial eateries, car complexes-
what hasn't been yet created?
the sun is raining through the clouds
the horizon shifts seats on the train
welcome to nothingness
II.
welcome to Señor Elderhostel docudrama
come, put your arms around my grief
assuage with your breasts the boils on my heart
massage with your tears the fecund desert of my eyes
the world is too variegated
the landscape too narratable
I need less scenery
I need Home Depot
Not Home Depot
HOME DEPOT
HOME to the eternal DEPOT
where mirrors are not the petty kings
where prestige is not the frothing queen
where the only thing to eat is not the lush emptiness of space
Bill Yarrow__
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