Saturday, July 02, 2005

Sunrise at the Bucket of Blood Saloon

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Blogger pghpoet said...

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....

1:34 PM  
Blogger Patty said...

Your photographs are AMAZING!!!

5:35 AM  
Blogger tearful dishwasher said...

Glad you enjoy them, Patty.
Thanks for stopping by!



8:34 AM  
Blogger tearful dishwasher said...


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.

8:47 AM  
Blogger LKD said...

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?

9:10 AM  
Blogger tearful dishwasher said...


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.



10:44 AM  
Blogger BlueTattoo said...

Wonderful, as always...

2:14 PM  

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