The river north of here

Carp take their way on down
in a screech of steaming water.
They’re headed yonder to a face
moaning all like Sunday on a Monday
and it yells it burns up
in what the tropics sweat on the stroll.
A learning stroll which taught
every hooded immigrant tobacco and English,
long on the rambling stroll. Learned too
the conquest of man in every gonadic season
as if, you listener listen well intently,
as if he felt a tumor and he felt a goldmine
swelling up in their gout of idiocy.
Can he laugh like this a minute longer?

He does so and turns morose all kid-like
hunting down five feet at a time
his friends, the dwarves, snub-toed
at the reef of this departure, his farewell
led on door to door in a salve of manhood
being a man, says, “Hello sir,”
in that country fashion conscious of his toes,
“I am come to collect my first years
from every sorry corpse
come to give God his due
whether they know it or not, and you
fit right well on the list in my hand
you’ve been staring at. Sir,
I believe in matrimony now and not
the angry spewings of my here womanfolk,
got a box out there in the swell
and I don’t know what’s in it or if
it’s you one day down alone as well?”


~ by Jeremy on December 31, 2010.

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