Saturday, August 14, 2010

Voices Preview I

From Kyle Muntz's Voices:


people were sick, and their campfires were a mess of bleeding horseflesh and badly tended crops.

Sickly grinning, they wore masks
of hollow leather skin that never stopped grinning.

In conjunction, the whole evil lot of them, they
laughed together, dumping blood drawings

on canvasses made of the same leathered skin.

Looking down, from atop
a high mountain, I

saw them all at once, taking in their stench.

They smelled like
a world without a shower, tasted

like the droppings of an infected animal about to die, laying

at midday in a sweating

pool of sun, green ooze

from the gaps
in its skin.

The mountain in its harshness,
rebuked me, by

setting obstacles,

hurling dangers, but I have

no fear of coldness, that that which remembers
the emptiness

at the origin of the soul, unmoving in itself,

as all around, niched in the center of the universe,


brocade of lights
broke out


to swallow all

sense of center, a howling dip
in the archways.

I climbed, squinting, and the mountain
fed me the remains

of old bones.

Licking white remnants, I grew,

ever closer

to the moon.


I climbed.

In the morning, to escape the storm, I holed up in a cave. Water dripped from the ceiling. Soon it would become a spear of ice, pointing cold fingers at the ground. It was too cold for anything natural to be living in here. I lit a fire and failed to thaw myself. Blue lines ate my skin. Freezing tendrils tore me.

To chase the boredom away, I wrote a poem

cold colorless lives in the echelon dusk
winking words silent shaking loudly feeding
the lies blatant hiding I shout quietly
at the backs of animals they ignore me
always so caught up in an empty
kind of life the animal
is nothing but fur and baking skin the innards
go moving as the bones shuffled across gruff
gruff gruff is the hard living really I wonder
how the mountain treats gofers without ever
coming around to fall it ignores the seasons
really I guess it has the right to ignore its own
the icicles are growing tonight cold in the
very depth of mountain caves firelight the
scent of melting water steaming drizzling up
to join a fluffing cloud in the sky
hands folding coolly over ligaments
tendons and whatever curling pieces
of bone

but stopped halfway in, for boredom.

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