"Journey with Rimbaud VI – Beyond the Edge"
now is the time of the assassins
As the temperature hovers near 100,
I read your words and listen
to the footfall of a cat on the sidewalk,
madrona leaves drop into a bed of nettles,
a bed unmade,
the aroma of discarded tissue,
pages turn as the book drops to the floor.
There is no midnight be-bop here,
no peyote or a pope’s ring to kiss;
there is no kill-a-pig fastidiousness,
no sex with the sexless – girl or boy.
There are only commercials for acid-reflux
and thistles riding over scrub oak
on a feather torn from a sparrow’s breast.
(Inspired by The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry,
Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1999)
© 2006 Gary Blankenship
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