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Wednesday, December 1, 2010

A Long Night Scribbling Between Waves-Jim Davis

I wade with Grizzlies, my great paw
swiping at silver and pink fish.
I drink thick soup, trace abstract images
in its skin with the tip of a spoon.
                   Hokusai captured an image of a great wave,
                               so as to one day become
                   a notebook cover. Of this I am certain.
Another glass of wine is consumed
and since Jeff Bridges won an Oscar,
I drink white russians in a robe until
my head tells me that I no longer want
to drink white russians, I want to play guitar.
I strum a few chords and sing to my notebook,
to the window and the wall, and I’m sure
I sound terrible, so I mix another drink,
and now I don’t care.

I plow gracefully through blue snow,
I take moguls with nimble charm and verse
flows like water off a mallard’s oily feathers.
             Has anyone ever dipped a grasshopper in paint
                          and let it squirm around on canvas?
What if I was dipped and squirmed just the same?
If the images were compressed, and scale
not considered, you would be
hard pressed to tell the difference.
I’ve got work in four hours, and I can’t get comfortable.
Red,            broken numbers. Books on a shelf.
I stuff my face into a pillow, my forehead rests
on the back of my numb hand, my mouth
tastes strange and I have heard that humans
were only meant to last as long as their teeth:
I think mine are dissolving.
I have no other death inclinations.

I am a long, stable canoe,
great waves crash and threaten to spill me
into the waters off Kanagawa.
I wipe froth from my face, to see my reflection
near the shore, eyes focused down the length
of my brown snout, waiting
for the ideal moment
to strike the water.

"Firing Squad" by Jim Fuess

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