Wednesday, May 16, 2012

The Ears Of The Cricket

The ears of the cricket are on its legs, and a voice like opera
Comes out of the fish to resume reconciliation. Pack
The ooze of emotion in a suitcase of poetry
Boxed in dirt, where the yearning is soft
And harsh necessity is willing to abdicate
To a hot delirium if the melody is wearing feathers
Try to think of this as a poem evident in the cloth
Of the moment. This moment, which is perfect
To tell you about bugs. What can we do about bugs?
I find most bugs to be charming, honest, and baritone
I just don’t want to play around with them anymore
My favorite animal is faith itself
And all the questions I have regarding life and death
I believe olives are eyeballs that grow on the limbs
Of martini trees. And then once in a while it rains
Watercolor antlers nudge life into a new idiom
In which the pasta has been chained to a passport
Glistening with environmental sorrow
A dent in the syntax will obliterate the clock
And if you look closely into the heart of the universe
You will see a forest of Peruvian X-rays
Humming in the heat of the jungle
Never scorn a handstand appareled in watermelon
Only yesterday I saw an octopus
Demonstrate vegetable cutters on the waterfront
Which led me to a deeper understanding of tassels
Have you ever photographed a barracuda
With your head? There is a camera of the mind
Where the film is developed by hunger
But you can choose your own chemicals
And step into the experience of yourself
Dawdling in secrets and argyle. The opus grows
Into a cake. The dirt has its own stomach. Toothpicks
Return us to crickets. Where our ears mirror
The appearance of sound in a dead man’s name


David Grove said...

I've read this several times, and it has some delightful shocks that retain their charge. "Never scorn a handstand appareled in watermelon" may be my favorite. Get well soon.

John Olson said...

Thank you David. Yeah, this virus is miserable. I can't wait to be done with it.