lunes, octubre 26, 2009

New Poetry From Richard Cronshey

Between Hank Williams and John Donne The Shadow Falls
And I Am The Shadow

Today I past you on the street
and my heart whose matter is soon spent
in you shall burn
the world. I can’t help it, I
am still not good, not bad, my heart
to no one does not belong to me.
If my life got wasted by you
smoked up
in your life, that would be
a kind of victory for me,
a birthing into my own petrified
destiny or burning essence.
In this world I’m left to wander
Wondering through this world alone
When blossoms unfold
A plaything
Alone and forsaken
With sad madness and gimpy legs
Poor as dirt through slow motion years
On property that had been mine
If I hadn’t fathered that bastard
Illegally with a bunch of outlaw
Metaphors upon virgin earth
And thereby jinxed shitless me..
The venom of all stepdames, gamsters gall
That I may know, and see your milky bright
Sillouette, but you send back my eyeballs
And celestial pump, No Longer at
This Address and this is the midnight
Of my life’s embarrassing year.
Oh where has it gone to, my leg,
My life smiling on me?

A hound in the distance is starting to bey.
Now a pair of chaoses and a lot of absence
Frequent me, an abysmall distillation
Looks me up and down. The world’s
Whole sap is sunk., Bayou Pon Pon.
O Sweet Marie she’ll dance. The hydroptique
Earth has drunk, and everybody’s having fun
But me. Lord I don’t know how
To lose all others, from all things
For I am every dead thing.
To make the doubt clear I tried
And I tried to make her satisfied.
I’m nobody’s sugar daddy now.
There you are folks.
If the good lord’s willing and the creeks don’t rise
The heavens get off on moving.
Pleasure’s not pleasure
If you don’t spread it around.
The sun in its radiant chair
Isn’t greedy with the heat and lordy neither
Will I be, sister subjection think these things cheerfully
Restless on the farm. Don’t take your guns to town
Son and make a spirit feare .
These stars are so many beads strung
On a single speeding string as is the pith
Whose quick succession makes it still
One thing. To pass an age
In her in whose body
This low world gets up and runs.
So hep your brother along the road, Terese,
Anette and Jole Blon. They have a good time,
O yes, oui, oui. But what good would it do.
I know I’d still want you.

The hogs took the cholera.
This must, my soul, be the long and short of it
To go on overthinking the thing and remembering
Her body that was the opposite of jail to me. I’m dirt
And you’re the ocean of loss
Invironning all and gnawing and breaking
My banks. Thanks a lot. Nothing but me
Of all invenom’d things
Blackmailed by my appetites
Am a decoy recanting death. I take up porcelain
Where they buried clay and usurpe
The body as the sea which
When it gets also sheds you numerlesse
Infinities tis late to ask abundance
Of your grace. See how the sun’s
Headlong conflagration begets
Strange creatures in Bayou Pon Pon?
In me your fatherly yet annoying ryme
Has wrought the same contamination.
Why don’t you spark me
Like you used to do?

Richard Cronshey was born in Los Angeles in 1966. He is the author of five collections of poetry, including most recently The Snow and The Snow. Cronshey's poems have appeared previously in Zone.

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