In Which Benny Profane, a Schlemihl
- after Thomas Pynchon
was a worthy grotto; we did the doghop.
Let down our ghosts. Either gonna pressgang
a mob before long or becalm the barman.
Cable once for embargo, two-step like tongs set
glowing coals to fire the throttle of wants, by god,
past bawdy lengths to trot. The extent of hope
extols chanteys. Seek shelter, seek other.
Suspect weather. Gamble on how wind blows.
What travels alone in poems ends cold in the thumbs.
Natural properties of fossils
two centuriesspirit people traveling beneath rich, cool soilgrains of sand
myths cast in glass
prairiewoodswaterwe are only of the earth in the way
we creep back into it
ecological patternstopographical illusion
even the compass points northtowards something always melting
liminal animalslife lithographiclatin nouns
aurorastint of divisioncut the cosmos, drawing
meridians of years aloneair effervescent
meteorss& we are climbing down a private sequence of memory
another feather song for concrete
obsequious anniversaryhow many times
can a man die before he's tired of dying
ghostwritten shadowswe will only know half
of beingthe appearing in radio waves
Dust now mingles with the gables. His
alien hands steeped to know the surface – time
lapsing, a mediocre trigger. In untruth,
sublime. Malignant in desperate mythos. Alibi,
a basis for being small, or for guile. A mirror
& razor all watching him a god (not a god).
Spine impales. Impulse minus the sensual lisping
lingual signals. Between plausibly mislabeled sunbeams
aspens bail the nebula. Saplings imagine ambling;
a hair of oak. Mesas in their palms.
By Douglas Luman
Douglas Luman is the Book Reviews Editor at the Found Poetry Review. He believes in anagrams.