Friday, April 22, 2005

Jaime 10!

{A Shrunken Head Enthusiast}

In the storm shelter and ache of big sky country
there is barely room for the cello.
This piece, Satie, played on a gramophone
Les unearthed like Tut and his belongings
from a church cellar in Butte,
makes all of my thoughts too big:
I survive on the petrified harvest of past voices,
there are phrases for love and human weakness in every language,
even now someone is groping for meter like a banished angel,
I survive on cunning and the quiet of others,
I survive on little icons my mother sends me,
I survive on,
I survive on
being touched by your voice oceans away,
unchecked by needle-skip, the recording.

The cellar was too crowded, see.
They were just giving things away,
sacred and useless artifacts for anyone
with space that needed to be filled.

Soupir. This is where Les’ll fill my glass
and say something like, "I want to know your inner-most thoughts."
And I’ll say something like, "I’d invite you inside, but there’s barely room for the cello."

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