Monday, June 23, 2014

The Ambitious Stuttering of the Twenty Syllable Zip Poem





is the moon a hole,
a woman's feathered mouth
through which the sky is seen
like a mirror?
these wet brooms I tend,
these cold broom-like sticks in winter
holding up the rain in snow
like clouds I sweep away.

now even a crooked tree
is as sweet as a girl's breast,
I think this as I use the spoon,
and using a spoon is like stuttering,
from moon to whole, from hole to moan,
the spoon like a mark which has no name,
but falls between this. flowers too
are spoons, even flowers
as tall as my head, these perfect copies
all are like stuttering.

some say man's ambition
does what it can toward this,
but the sun is like a knife
not a spoon, and its mouth
is a fire, a burning of stuttering.

the sun is bright, and the truth
of all this, is that as ambition walks,
a fire falls over its legs,
every thing here is the sun's bright stuttering.

a dog may be sad or happy
and like a fish may slip the hook
dogs know words
but I have to be in love with
fire, heart, girl, their stuttering
as they descend in two.

a king's head
is just a retort
but do the resemblances balance.
both vessels stutter this question.

these legs are golden erections
made for running.

every vehicle is a stutter,
and stuttering is like a blind measure.

to grasp the obvious is easy,
but why grasp at all? why stutter?
does the purpose turn?

ambition paces
and blends all things.
a king's head
is just a retort,
a king's court
is just retorting.

a king
and a dot
and a dog
are all simple plain marks.
every different mark
is the same stuttering.

planting seeds
or planting knives?
both destroy, both grow.
ambition stutters.
beauty stirs.
heaven stores.

fragrances drift here
without purpose,
without ambition.
no legs can equal this.
the sun makes fragrant legs,
and every thing is unequaled
in its stuttering.