Sunrise at the Bucket of Blood Saloon
posted by tearful dishwasher at 11:49 PM
Saturday, July 02, 2005
About Me
- Name: tearful dishwasher
- Location: U.S. Outlying Islands
Fully engaged in the whole catastrophe
Previous Posts
- How to be Happy
- Bereft Object No. 1
- blocked
- Agememnon and Diane
- Evening
- Losses
- Isabella's Quantum Birthday Party
- Donald Ponders the Meaning
- Sleeping, and Dreaming of Sleep
- Saturday Morning
7 Comments:
if we could close our eyes for a minute and open them quickly, perhaps we'd see danger as it truly is. like this rhinosceros for instance, walking down the street.
before the blink, perhaps this was a man in a baseball cap- belly full of anger, waiting for provocation.
there is road rage, employees suddenly going postal, over-taxed mothers with screaming children threading through their houses and how many rhinosceri biding their time, building up to a charge?
this is what this one says to me. it's the uncomfortable calm before violence. a smell in the air of ozone....
k.
Your photographs are AMAZING!!!
Glad you enjoy them, Patty.
Thanks for stopping by!
yrs-
Scott
Karen-
For me this guy was stumbling home after an all-nighter at an old bar around the corner from us- see the dent he left in the wall? And I also thought of that Zero Mostel film, Rinocerous, for obvious reasons.
Enjoyed your take on him a lot.
Thanks, as always.
Oh, Scott. Your collages haunt me as much, or maybe more than your poetry. This rhino won't leave me alone. I've buried the box of bones, the bereft object deep, deep inside. But the rhino, maybe because it is horned, won't go quietly into the hole. So, I wrote a poem just now in an attempt to unhaunt myself. Which, by the way, is why I write. I write to remember and to forget. I write to keep it all in and rid myself of it.
That Which is not Watched
Forlorn, he follows his horn.
Understand that his skin is armor.
Yet his lips are soft and his hard
nose can be ground to powder,
a cure-all, an aphrodisiac. His path,
short and narrow and black, is dictated
by his shadow’s length. The body
follows the shape of itself back and forth
in the dust, apparently tireless. How long
before the calloused soles weary
of this walk? He walks for miles and miles
every day, yet never inches forward.
There are no noses pressed to the panes.
If what is observed is changed
by that witnessing, what happens
to such a private ache? What happens
to this man, this pathetic beast, an exhibit
in a zoo no one visits, that wears desire
bared on his face if there’s no mirror
in his cage, and nobody to tell him?
(hope you don't mind, but I think I'm going to hijack my comments here and slap them up poem and all on my blog...)
Oh, and hey, I may take you up on your collage offer. Can I send you pieces of me? A tattoo, an eye, a mouth, a hand?
Laurel-
Thank you so much for this. This kind of interplay is what it's all about. Wonderful, wonderful poem.
And please do send me pieces of yourself.
Really, Laurel, thanks.
yrs-
Scott
Wonderful, as always...
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