Sunday, June 13, 2010

11: Chris Piuma

With a banjo, you’re dumb,
the moon, the brain,
all smoulder and smoke,
what to do, what to do?

Or really:
the brain, a hearse,
all smoulder and smoke,

Or really:
the smoke, the brain,
the off-putting smoulder,

I lie, a poem purples in my head,
an old fame, an eternal frame,
badly jointed, each nail a clear clue
to its unfascinating fastening.

Burn the house down from the inside to escape.

Or really:
With a banjo, you strum,
the words, the tune,
all smoulder and smoke,
“Beware my foolish heart...”

Or really:
The brain, rehearsed,
all smoulder and stoke.


Notes: Inspired by the poem, I got lazy. I tightened up a few formal connections I saw, and made more, and decided to let the sentiment do its thing. It ended a bit workshoppy, maybe. That’s fine.

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