a poem by Michele McDannold
this man’s voice transposes the chords of Hunter S. Thompson It’s the violin’s strings wiggling slurs I feel I’ve had too much sugar or otherwise inactive ingredients he is not wise I suspect he thinks he is talking loud enough to take pride in absurdity if you listen carefully in the café you can hear the catfish growing you can hear the 1963 Ford how it was a Maroon that resembled the letting go of a youth you hear a groomed wisdom sold over stories well, some are true and others are imagined so something about keeping his coat shiny in Texas and how he says Aaaa knows everything about something talks from a napkin like the blood meeting air comes out blue the words dribble out the mouth, tastes of poetry shades that collide and fight for room he says if the cook is Mexicano he might understand the raw egg even better the black man can’t go wrong on the grits © Michele McDannold |