Friday, April 27, 2012

The Corn and the Red Winged Black Birds

The Corn and the Red Winged Black Birds
L. Edgar Otto    27 April, 2012

How close the insect and the milkweed as if one being, depending on each other, specialized and tied together, scarcities and all or nothing drought or plenty

The air force of black birds come to the harvest like locusts, know no better than to leave nothing they find save a swath where the soil as all soil tilled blows away to clay as dust

The Earth rolls over in her sleep churning up mountains living imprints on her skin, drooling on her pajama sleeves and when the sky jamed meets ice rivers volcano snores

The two party system inherently unstable, persists, takes the empire army colors and double eagles for their flags and those who pray to symbols think anthems always their own

I choke on tarballs while I dolphin play, slowly die of grass and meat my blood crystallizes into soot and diamonds implosion in its echo as I stumble as I walk, exist

The bones and ferns ooze from my skin, as light renewed molasses slow or but a twinkling although so few the freckle stars that set my path of time connected sunburned wrinkles

The tar pits hold but shadows and empty voids of marrow as if but yesterday at once they turned to stone and glowing methane, hemorrhaging, incontinent, growing breasts

As if to turn the corn to oil again in triple bypass the middle man of elephants with vestigial fingers returned to live in seas
looped tops of food chains spawn mad sacred cow disease

For ivory and the dreadlocks double horns of rhinos the poachers hack their face to sell as modern myths of snake oil the cure in some hidden plaster of shark fin, and turtle farms

I explore the mudflats by the estuary brine, tidewaters teeming wild life, brave screech and dives as I come near her nest, I make her scarlet on dark wings my totem flag

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A humble bee alone less likely stings in sacrifice my bare feet stepping on, my calloused heels running over razor sharp shells of spent oyster beds cannot cut fleet feet, hot coals,

noon suns all day that cannot burn, we walk in runs awhile on water or jumping through the cane break to reach fresh and not egg rot clouds that hover near the roots and ground

where I can fly in the fellowship of dragonflies that dart around me too fast to catch by hand, or butterflies that sip the asphodels, all on the make not voracious larvae stalking

minnows, to get a good view of their iridescent wings one has to stumble on their dried hollow exoskeleton not green blood, scent tree sap of June bugs on a leashes of thread

I am but a reed to them, I stand still and hold a finger to the sky, and one alights in rest and preens its many legs as the shadows move, not as he flies with seeing compound eyes

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