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Dalia |
"Ok, here is the plan. I am going to seed a poem, and you will each add 3 lines, rearranging the whole thing as you wish. You should all do it, all seven of you, and then it will be full grown, and we can title it, depending on what it's about. Post each expansion as a new post, and feel free to post other stuff in the meantime--this doesn't have to monopolize the blog. Here it goes...”
“So, due to lack of participation, lets just each add another three lines:”
Wood is made of mud, and stars of sawdust.
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, forgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh,
to another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
I go Novembering, Decembering, babbling
into brook-fast streams of milk and shredded wheat,
Trudge-running toward the something.
Labels: Dalia
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