“This poem’s about…” by Alexander BestPosted: May 26, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on “This poem’s about…” by Alexander Best
“This poem’s about”
This poem’s about what’s inbetween, this part’s
the piece got left out.
Crawled up to the roof where calmness is. A
guy’s up there, kind and cool, big and
warm and vague — didn’t beat me.
In my room: dumptrucks heave along, dragging
dreams through potholes. Oil-burning “steam shovels”
unearth me at devilish dawn, pound the 8 X 12-foot ground,
pluck me from the floorboards, with crooked steel teeth
— and fling.
This dream lives life in secret;
rectangled in a cupboard; a thing pretzel-bawdy,
its mouth at its crotch and a scald-pipe
collars the throat.
This poem’s about what’s inbetween, the
bit unmentioned, put neat-to-the-side.
On the table: an eavestrough-vase holds sculpture of
tough-skin-slicing weeds — rumex crispus L. — grew in a
dry oasis ‘neath the expressway. These weeds
proclaim the Dot. And a bricked-in, coal-chunk’d,
wall-eyed cot railroads fright from me, in a
room’s as trusted, big-busted, nut-clamped and
breakneck’d as within’s the rattled world without.
This poem can’t take the hint. Ignored, dropped,
still it’s self-propelled on a head of fumes.
At last, this poem describes the face in shadow,
turned toward an ancient painted place,
filthy t-shirt stretched ‘cross
cave-bound eyes like tissue of silk.
This poem’s what’s behind the shrapnel mask,
it records the dear loss of the fake.
This poem, it gladly ends.