I call for the appetite, the destruction of all.
I don’t want to know what we have in each other; we are animals.
Someone threw a man face down in a lime pit today and no one seems to care
And later, somewhere down Kumquat Lane, a forgotten kid
Will pull off a round in an old oak tree
Producing funeral processions of Spanish moss
Hanging death and the spooky mortality of insects.
But we don’t care about moss.
We are humans whining ourselves back to life
And songs we haven’t written haunt us
And one day, we will all be tortured
With want of more and the constant crow
Of people that can’t see beyond their own suffering.
But then, there is always a superhuman road to God that binds us
Young with dust and round in fear.
Just to put it in context, a toothless suicide is always
Across the hallway from your mother’s apartment.
Drinking turpentine, compiling the world around him.
Maybe he stopped using his toilet, used bags.
And one day that’s it. No mystery.
Just the living and the dead.
And we go on and even when we can’t as Beckett said.
We go on itching the grid with our whiskey-sharp perfume.
We live for hands and eyes
We are the webbed parts that gather in words
We are connected like the far hues of sun and sky
The rapture of all those exiting the swell of cloth and moon.
The notes we play together, the notes we first sing
When half-awake, the terribly rough suckling of a babe at tit
The fire-black broken heart of desire surviving another dayEyes pressed to the ear’s never-ending grass.
Laura Minor lives in Brooklyn as a poet, professor, and singer/songwriter. Her work has most recently appeared in Sixers Review, Lungfull, JMWW: A Journal of Quarterly Writing, and Mantis. She has released two critically acclaimed records, "Salesman's Girl" for Hightone Records (2002) and "Let Evening Come," (Ocean of Sound Recordings, 2009). Her second solo record is forthcoming spring 2011 on Ocean Sound Recordings. She is currently finishing her first manuscript of poems.