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Old 12-19-2013, 03:54 PM   #376
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51 - The Moon and the Donkey

The Moon was legend
in logger lore. Near seven foot
and bear-like, strong as an ox.
We called him The Moon
on account of his luminous
bald head.

No one knows
how the steam donkey fell
on Moon but men came running
from all over camp.

All we could see of Moon
in the muddy rut
was his bald head and it was screaming
“Off me! Off me!”
as the donkey sank, crushing,
crushing the breath out of Moon.

We put our shoulders to the metal,
heaving until our heads throbbed.
Thirty of us seeing stars,
fallers, swampers and cook
but it budged not an inch.
All the while Moon was bawling
“Off me! Off me!”
weakening fast.

I knelt in the muck holding his head
and lying to him as his breath left
and he whispered his agony
until, in the awful silence
we stood away,
looking down
at the wide unseeing eyes,
the blood filled mouth.

Later, after help arrived
and the donkey righted,
it dawned on us,
Moon knew he was done for.

“Off me!” was a plea
for swifter relief.
An invitation to read.
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Old 12-22-2013, 08:53 AM   #377
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Posts: 857

For Delmore

Kazin mistakenly thought
she saw you on Sunday lost
like a puppy dog after dark
down on Bleeker sniffing the bars
as furtively as a fido would
back alley dipsty dumpsters.

Sally cried in her Canada Dry,
who just last week wouldn't ring
her White Horse Tavern register
and deep sixed your seventh autograph,
scribbled on a White Horse napkin,
pretending to laugh when you said
you'd die on the floor in her men's room.

Indeed, some said you already were
because you cut off both of your ears
and threw them down a subway grate
night after night. "Merde!" you said
to your latest puzzled barstool friend
"at least Baudelaire had Mother's money,
trying to pierce heaven's shroud.
So what's a napkin worth to you, Buddy?"

It was, of course, your newcomer gag
all the regulars heard before,
except it was really your onion joke
you couldn't help but play on yourself,
the skins of which you had to peel
that dry, lifeless, and endless,
nonetheless stung and brought you to tears
for fear there wasn't a heaven.

Or was it, Friend, your manic state
and too many Johnny Walker Reds?
I asked the crumpled yellow sheets
on your naked bed in this naked place.

Last edited by greenmountaineer : 12-22-2013 at 09:01 AM.
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Old 12-22-2013, 01:50 PM   #378
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Location: Dreamland
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52!!!!!! 12/22/13

is is here

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Old 12-22-2013, 02:29 PM   #379
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52 - Fifty-one Titles in Search of a Finale

Memo to Self – stop apologising,
the Possibilities are One of Us Will.
A Captive Audience, Mark O’Brian
gets Laid
off, one of the Casualties
of Dawn.
All we can hope for, Salvation,
Renewal. Heartbreaking like Flamenco
or Letters from the Lost.
Hubris and Cryptic Cross Words
Need Rapprochement, a Short
Cut to Sanity
, some Private Places.
Think of the hope of The First Bee
of Spring
or Mistah Morton’s magical
music. Like the Boston Marathon
it’s The Poet’s Place to
make it beautiful.
In Shallow Pools Walter
and the Naiad
lived in
Domestic Bliss, Running
out of Time
and Flat. Fearing
Death in the Morning and
using the Untitled, Coded
“Nabokov” with
Illumination, they prevail.
That Indian Summer, among
the Pumpkins, Mary’s Monster,
Hungry Jack falls for The Artist’s
. Her father disapproves,
A House Divided, Legacies lost
in spite of Brave New Words invoking
violence and the Ghost of 1847,

The Man who Fell in Love all over Again
with Suspended Beliefs Among
the Bones,
Lost Innocence and
desired A Dignified Death with
Demarcation. In his Him-agination
he saw The Moon and the Donkey,
Buk and Purdy and The Ghosts Of Storyville
gathered under the Arbutus trees
An invitation to read.
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Old 12-22-2013, 06:28 PM   #380
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Location: Left Coast
Posts: 5,980

Epilogue, in the Form of a Toast

And so, at last, a year is ended
of writing poèms off the cuff.
A few were good, some have offended
but, mostly, mine were rather rough.
I want to thank my fellow poets
whose verse inspired when at my lowest
compositional desire
to light anew my Muse's fire.
Think Fifty-Two a sort of present
for joining in my thread this year.
(Of Fifty-Three you needn't fear—
as even I'd find that unpleasant.)
May all of you write brilliantly
this coming year. Now, some Chablis.
It's very exasperating when you can't get it right.
—Donald Judd
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