Thursday, March 12, 2015

fireside chat ~ Joseph Milford


good poets know when to shut-up.
your cloak wraps about your ankles as you warp.
the poem on your fork is a gringo because your country
is conquered. stop standing in a stadium looking for Eden
now, all the places you ever wanted to go to are in you
all the fortune cookies have been read, floating in the miso
thinking that home was something you could own
my knees are ant-bites in weeds from pre-pubia
western mind makes mines not museums
you just hope there are no more explosions
which give children tongues to run with
home for bacon. kite flying above
the universe with humans parts in its strings
watching an entire culture punch itself in the face
and sell black-eyes to blind children
O, hearkeners! what you hearken to?
what say you all, those so hardened?
I see every dog in the street as wayward intentions
I am jealous of and miss. do you also darken?
I feel your tail between your legs. moons don’t hover
moons choke with chalk all day. let’s all choose not to howl
it makes you lovable, your ears hanging down
like pods and nettles, or flags striped with invisible
violence. once, we ran faster than hell’s wolves
we covered such terrain; I remember when we
got scared by something; then we started making
incredibly sharp maps which severed our internal tongues

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