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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 04 February 2010 20:56 |
I'd rather be a puddle
than a Popsicle.
Can I tell you why?
Better yet, I'll start
by asking, What should
immortality cost?
It could be mine for the low-
low price of twenty-nine,
nine-ninety-nine.
Yes, in US dollars,
no cents. I've got the latter,
not the former,
at least not in this lifetime.
I might also mention
the ugly how
to get there: First flushed,
then re-pumped blue for blood,
I'd be bagged and hung
upside down in a sparing
accommodation.
If plans hatch as laid,
science'll shell me out
from gamy non-life
to patch and catch me up.
But why would it bother,
'less to pick my pickled brain
about times ago
when men couldn't see much
beyond their vanity.
And that takes me back
where I started at:
I'd rather be a puddle,
and evaporate. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 04 February 2010 20:52 |
At first I thought, guns are designed to kill,
killing being their essential purpose,
twitchy triggers and bored barrels anxious
to thrust their loaded charges at something.
If they merely wound, then they fail the task,
albeit at hands a bit too shaky.
That's when those hands and my eye connected.
I saw, so are we — designed for killing:
bipedal stance a leg up on hunting,
with our oft-deadly knack for tool making.
These arms in blood-lusting grip, we follow
where our frothy appetites take us,
but sometimes those trails only lead us back
to ourselves, another kind of preying. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Monday, 25 January 2010 14:04 |
You have to feed on something,
they said, or I imagine them
saying, and I do... but I don't
want to feed,
at least not doing it to trade
in visible doubts for a life's
uncertain
drift between I am, and I'm not...
fed fat by the neatly packaged
carcasses
clearly drained and cellophane wrapped,
to keep unclean hands bloodlessly
far from mine.
I'm told but I won't hear, We're more
highly evolved. We think therefore
we are so
discomfited by not knowing...
whether the fed-on think and feel
what we do
when life's last light runs out, taking
with it the green and red that played
over flesh
and bony because... if they do,
it could be, we're feeding on one
another.
That's the unkind art of feeding. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Saturday, 06 February 2010 21:44 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 04 February 2010 20:44 |
d
r
o
p
p
i
n
g
my
speech
-less
(thought)
my
emotion
-less
(care)
until...
I
hit
and...
s-h-a-t-t-e-r |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Monday, 25 January 2010 13:52 |
1. Red-eyed, not weary, we feed
on the rarefied
aerial leavings of gruntled clouds.
2. An Orange gap carves out when
the gobbling is done,
and strings are strung tight across that lap.
3. These six wires grate full Yellow
hymns into fine crumbs,
sifting down through curious weather.
4. The suppler notes land to Green
and moisten stretched tongues
on mannered ferns eager to praise sing:
5. Of powder Blue complexions,
jays abandoning
spent wings to totter off at twilight,
6. In search of Indigo fins
and shallow pools where
they might paddle up enough courage,
7. To ask the Violet sky
to stay its blushing
hues, so he'll never be wak'd again. |
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