when the giant mid-winter grasp
came out of its shell and
grabbed monkeys like it was
last Tuesday’s sale on jelly balls,
the old stagehand rested a moment and began
to yodel, an art form lost on savages
but cradled by lovers on back benches of
tomorrow where grandmothers stayed
grandmothers and no one seized ransoms
for gobble-de-gookin’ lip-synchin’
recording studios.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Love Tinka