lost 26: i’ll be mother
the air in the verse, too much green to pain, the best photos taken on a moonless night – creep up on that plant, shock with flash. hey you, potato on the counter, rame. kins. hot or cold sprink.le ; what is up to when we’re not – busy turning, the butterflies having fun dreams of sweet wet of white. and on the mantle, baby jesus, lost. if they have CROP and MESI and DIME how hard can that be? she on deconstructing /i saw nothing; he stares at sculptures’ fingernails plonks them into his memory mahal with the hypothetical case of vanilla rum cum crème brulee/serves five. – blossom on the tree you know how I feel it’s a new dawn it’s a new day: pretty potato slightly suggestive rude the peel on its way to becoming. as we all are. surface like a planet, reach out and touch, offering for snow white. what’s the other prong. you are. but i have no experience being a prong. oh you’re a born prong. through though the narrow passage to the kitchen eram eras erat eramus there to carry out our business picnic baskets fishing tackle plus plenty plausible excuses and serious hazards in the act of lighting a fresh cigarette. and potato, you be father okay? i’ll be mother.
Italicized lyrics from Feelin Good, Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse, Greasepaint, Photo: Shai Ben-Shalom.
Now that we’re on the subject of potatoes (thanks Shai), you must find and read Jason Heroux’s poem called ‘potato’. I’m in a bit of a snit because I can’t find his book with that poem in it, but I shall calm myself by offering instead, another of Jason’s poems published in This Magazine, September-October 2005:
The traffic sparkles and glints under the sun,
cameras flashing at a special event. The world
drains the window’s glass with one long gulp.
Grasstrumpets sway in the earth’s orchestra.
The clock ticks clearing stones from a field.
We cling to life like chimney smoke
above the dark rooftops of our shadows.
We’ll die and get put aside for a while
like odd-sized screws kept in a drawer.
Even if we never get used for anything again
it’ll feel okay to stretch out freely for once.
It’ll feel okay holding nothing together.
Here a poem to link with Jason’s, lifted from From the Academy of American Poets: POEM-A-Day
Carsten René Nielsen
translated by David Keplinger
At night things become ever so smaller, our shoes and teeth, too, and everywhere in buildings screws turn a quarter of a revolution, but even if you press your ear against the wall, the sound is rarely heard. Always there is someone who plays the gelatin piano, someone who packs his pipe with snow, and on a radio channel from somewhere in the world, where the sun is already on its way up through the mist in the horizon: a gospel choir of hoarse, nearly inaudible women.