Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Ghost Rider Vs. Swamp Thing

The poet Jay Snodgrass is green and filled with tree limbs. Outcast,
Trudging, pine laden under Spanish moss, crosses straight sand
Highways. He carries his daughter on his hip over what hills line
Tallahassee. She doesn’t mind. He is mulch and swamp erect, his body
Is alive; the Belted Kingfisher, the White Heron, the Gator and Bullfrog.
He is aware of me and me of him. Our children have finally stopped
Fighting when we get them together. When I metamorphose
Erupting into searing blue flame, and ride my volcanic hell-born
Motorcycle through this blue-black Virginian city at night, it is the thought
Of our children, together, that keeps me safe, that brings me back.
It is my own combustion that set’s me out, my song thrumming underneath.
The cinders of my own desperation smolder in my own frame.

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