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

More Poetry by Mike Foster

VELVET UNDERGROUND

Such succous stuff, this thickness of sin

That sheens the body like the shine of sweat

And shines us in its slick heat.

Of snakeskin and ebony and humbucking magnets

Are slick sin’s thick songs made.

Surgery on the lake of fire

The will is amputated with a piece of steel,

The patient recovers

But does not live.

March 1, 1975—February 5, 2016

 

Talking Ring Out Ahoya Blues No. 43

 

They are very beautiful and

They have agreed on a smile.

Their mouths are worth several thousand dollars

(the orthodontist says)

And their bodies are made of the finest steel wire

With souls of paisley and hearts of madras

Guaranteed to blood

(they do not believe in premarital life)

 

BUT SERIOUSLY, FOLKS

 

When I think about the manyness of poets

And the poems beyond number already written,

And the thousand or so (ten thousand or so)

That get written every day, I get depressed.

I feel like Psyche scratching her chin,

Standing before the granaries

She must sort out to get her Eros back.

How can anyone find time to find fine

Kernels amid all that flax? How can

Anyone stay in savor with all the

New poems? Or ever hope to be saved?

 

When I think of the manyness of poets,

I am delighted. All this energy

Roaring up daily like constant incense

To the Logos. All these poems

a-swarm like butterflies, some

iridescent, some faint and pale,

some near China blue with flecks of black,

some madder red and dusty brown,

all of them flying up and out

in a whirlpooling come

flying up from earth

sucked out into the sun.

 

Mike Foster, 2004

 

 

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This entry was posted on February 8, 2016 by in Mike Foster, Poetry and tagged , .
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