Wednesday, December 8, 2010

potential storms

red soil sand bellows
blustery afternoon filled
agrarian rifts in earth's psyche
the lungs of the earth buried under
weed suppressant plastic
black widows, fire ants, and grubs
waiting to gnaw on next season's roots
incubating under black plastic
warm air meeting cold air in pressure
  clouds; a man named sun
white hair
  clouds; a woman named sun
black hair
white hair and black hair braiding infinitely
the raw face of a vulture
vultures sitting in a group at the edge of a forest
reinterpreting a dream for me i had just reinterpreted
what i had thought were black flies
were then ravens from a distance
what i had thought were ravens from a distance
flying from the privacy of desire to my mouth
were now vultures sitting calmly at the edge of a forest

church mission boy silent and working slow
innocent smooth face pulled skin tight over
the raw bones of a vulture
his head is not buried in the soil but he is silent
wearing a black shirt with abstract insignia
holding the silence of god in his mouth
piercing the earth with his faith and forboding shovel
black helicopter slow in hovering motion
blotting out small farm sounds
grey noise pending questions on canopy of secondary forest
where previously fabricated houses carved into wooded acres
bear the raw face of vultures
a series of familial vultures
massaging me into the soil where i will be wedded and where i will die
down the road from the hospital in which i was born
all of this is joyful and resonates with my birth
i was born of a vulture as a vulture with a raw face
the farm becomes a raw face the farmer a vulture
i must expose my face to the wind in order to eat
my raw vulture face digests the wind and regurgitates
white and black hair infinitely braided
into the sky where a black police helicopter
searches for my ghost running around aimlessly
through empty neighborhoods

a vulture with long white and black braids
wearing a wedding dress at the edge of an old-growth forest
streams whisper the sun behind us and away
cauliflower mushrooms bloom from the billowing roots
of the oldest oaks i have ever embraced
pleading to the sun to love me like she used to
and to forgive me for burying my head in deep lascivious soil

--(posted at the request of) Sean O'Connell 

1 comment:

  1. I really like the refrains throughout this piece.