Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

Fats Domino and other poems by Mike Foster

FATS DOMINO

 

Blue Monday in the Zone.

Down in Panama,

The world whirls so fast

That America snaps thin,

Tight as a nerve.

 

So oceans seep into one another,

Through the thick locks.

Howler monkeys and parrots:

Dread jabber

Malaria sings at the screens.

And on the clearest nights only,

Crackling radio from New Orleans:

“….all my tiredness is gone away, Got my money and my….

Get my rest ‘Cause Monday is a mess.”

 

 

 

 

 

THE FACE IN THE GRAIN BARN WINDOW–26

 

That jellyfish face that floats

Pale, empty, illumined:

That face that snares your eyes

And stares you down

From a pane smashed out of a window

Forty feet up, beneath a black gable:

That face, that silver face

‘For a ghost cannot float

‘In the air so frail

‘For a ghost bears a cloak

‘Of silvery mail.’

 

White eyes ooze

Down the arc of the stare

Like a poison made of oysters

Sliding down a dirk

Of hollow pearl.

 

Hollow pearl eyes, sleepy silver moon,

Be shut, be shut.

Sleep moon, high and full

Above the dreaming corn.

Now the sun slashes the edge of the earth

Now the day’s blood pools in the east

Now the world is like a virgin who sighs,

Reddening and opening to the heat.

‘For a ghost cannot float

‘In the air so pale

‘For a ghost’s throat will choke

‘On a whispering wail.’

The sun attacks the moon;

She is his sister’ she fends him off

With blue and mauve. He licks

At her with scarlet, golden.

The moon with no hope. She

Will flee. She does not weep

As she runs beneath the ground.

Her white eyes never flinch

To feel the floating earth.

 

October 21, 31 1975

 

CLAPTON

 

The bodies of nude fish

Gleam into the boat

Like blues notes spilling

Down the sleek neck of the blue guitar.

 

The fish weep and gasp.

They give up. They will do what we say.

They will take our treacherous note

To the King on the Atlantic floor.

 

Rain like applause on the radio

Stills the dust on the sea

A thousand leagues above the king’s head.

 

The blue guitar bits at the leader.

His thousand pickerel teeth snap

The wire like as the boot

Breaks his back. His eyes

Brood an agate film. His sleekness

Goes slimy.

 

They took our message. The King was deceived.

We leave him lashed to the sobbing fish.

 

30 September 1975

IMAGE282

 

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This entry was posted on February 5, 2016 by in Mike Foster, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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