Byrd “Art is the compression of infinite spiritual power into a confined space.” – Josef von Sternberg.
Somebody must have given him what He wanted: An iceberg in crystal Landmass of icicles of light dipped In blood as slowly as thought crawling Toward flashing paparazzi. Planks groan Against a razor grip that snaps nails Loose in bursts of brume popping eardrums With their ghastly echo. His ship stalled, Sails flaccid after losing their breath – Indeed there is no oxygen here At the summit. Only white blindness To peel like sunstroke from what little Remains of his face, concealed behind Dark goggles and whiskers of fur. Sight Freezes. He can no longer tell where One snow ends and another begins. This must be the rapture: cirrus clouds Made earth, where no man’s boots leave a trail For those who follow. He had not thought Victory was oblivion, flags Planted for no one to find, nations Without borders, or corporations Profitless and naked in the waste.
Byrd
ReplyDelete“Art is the compression of infinite spiritual power into a confined space.” – Josef von Sternberg.
Somebody must have given him what
He wanted: An iceberg in crystal
Landmass of icicles of light dipped
In blood as slowly as thought crawling
Toward flashing paparazzi. Planks groan
Against a razor grip that snaps nails
Loose in bursts of brume popping eardrums
With their ghastly echo. His ship stalled,
Sails flaccid after losing their breath –
Indeed there is no oxygen here
At the summit. Only white blindness
To peel like sunstroke from what little
Remains of his face, concealed behind
Dark goggles and whiskers of fur. Sight
Freezes. He can no longer tell where
One snow ends and another begins.
This must be the rapture: cirrus clouds
Made earth, where no man’s boots leave a trail
For those who follow. He had not thought
Victory was oblivion, flags
Planted for no one to find, nations
Without borders, or corporations
Profitless and naked in the waste.
[Disposable Poem September 10, 2010]
Dr. Mike
Dr. Mike:
ReplyDeleteThat is a great poem. Thanks.
H. K.