Dallas Wiebe, p.3
DON’T PICK UP THAT SKULL
Japanese anomalies line the spring garden.
Albanian inquiries surround the lily pond.
Cincinnati weeds choke out
the ivy in the good earth.
That’s all hunky-peachy,
you think,
Because you, swine heart and all,
are a member of the gashouse crowd
that lingers on the summer air.
Because you, first to grovel in the river,
have fallen by the wayside
and grown into a football stadium.
Because you, lacking all forbearance,
have shuffled off to Buffalo
in shoes stolen from the indigent.
I wonder about you, Nicodemus,
You who first flew over
the rock dam
in your wife’s heart.
I wonder about you, Jeremiah,
You who first diddled the locks
on your sister’s Coupe de Ville.
I wonder about you, Tobias,
You who first splintered the trellis
over your mother’s infamy.
God, are you guys repulsive.
All on the same page
and all filled with Republican tap dancing.
Oh those rhythms you prod
out of the gayety of harpoons
stuck into the dying seas.
Oh those stompings of hammers
and screwdrivers
when the motors stop.
Oh those pickings of old corsets
when the sun sets
over the forks in restaurants.
Now that you mention it,
It’s entirely probable
that mankind can revert to Olduvai Gorge
and there take up a new trade.
It’s possible that out of Africa
might mean we lost our way
when our brains enlarged
and we stood up to salute
the stars and stripes forever.
It’s inevitable that
we will realize
that buried in us is us.
By golly, it’s got to be right
that if we hunt long enough
in the rubble of the African rift
we’ll find that old secret that said,
“If you learn to speak,
don’t forget the value of silence.”
Surely we’ll remember
if we pick up enough bones that
“Just because language is useless
doesn’t mean that there’s something
wrong with it.”
Perhaps, as we blow away the dust
off our ancestors
We’ll understand that
“Speech is something wrong
with the breath.”
Japanese anomalies line the spring garden.
Albanian inquiries surround the lily pond.
Cincinnati weeds choke out
the ivy in the good earth.
That’s all hunky-peachy,
you think,
Because you, swine heart and all,
are a member of the gashouse crowd
that lingers on the summer air.
Because you, first to grovel in the river,
have fallen by the wayside
and grown into a football stadium.
Because you, lacking all forbearance,
have shuffled off to Buffalo
in shoes stolen from the indigent.
I wonder about you, Nicodemus,
You who first flew over
the rock dam
in your wife’s heart.
I wonder about you, Jeremiah,
You who first diddled the locks
on your sister’s Coupe de Ville.
I wonder about you, Tobias,
You who first splintered the trellis
over your mother’s infamy.
God, are you guys repulsive.
All on the same page
and all filled with Republican tap dancing.
Oh those rhythms you prod
out of the gayety of harpoons
stuck into the dying seas.
Oh those stompings of hammers
and screwdrivers
when the motors stop.
Oh those pickings of old corsets
when the sun sets
over the forks in restaurants.
Now that you mention it,
It’s entirely probable
that mankind can revert to Olduvai Gorge
and there take up a new trade.
It’s possible that out of Africa
might mean we lost our way
when our brains enlarged
and we stood up to salute
the stars and stripes forever.
It’s inevitable that
we will realize
that buried in us is us.
By golly, it’s got to be right
that if we hunt long enough
in the rubble of the African rift
we’ll find that old secret that said,
“If you learn to speak,
don’t forget the value of silence.”
Surely we’ll remember
if we pick up enough bones that
“Just because language is useless
doesn’t mean that there’s something
wrong with it.”
Perhaps, as we blow away the dust
off our ancestors
We’ll understand that
“Speech is something wrong
with the breath.”