October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Rain’s not quite quit. Green at the intersection says go. I remember nights like this in other cities when I thought of myself as the wanderer. Especially I remember Decatur, with its twenty-four hour eggroll shop that resembled a motorcycle garage. Intersections of individuals are just as important to us as memorable street and road intersections. Our cheerfulness has not failed to impress the back-broken night. Buckets of rain–what is there to say about that? I’m just being difficult. Beyond night, what is out there? Your reputation for coping is cracking. Scene requiring a moon spun in.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
I got up and took a bath and got dressed, took my wallet and keys and said Hi to Donna and went to Winchells and said Hi to Bari and Paul. Then I talked to Paul and read the newspaper and drank coffee and ate an apple fritter and read meditations from Marcus Aureleus from the Harvard Classics and thought about his pessimism concerning humanity and looked at three pretty girls and was amused to remember a joke in the music of Alice Cooper. Then I thought about aging and a dream I had about my girlfriend Debra! Debra! Darling!
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
In her last moment as a waitress and in her first moment before becoming someone who takes phone messages during night shift for an answering service, she thought of me, the one she always called dildo. I thought her hair was teased up and cute and I forgave. She was good on the State basketball team, and I decided I liked thin girls. It is time to dream of you, my love. We even cornered each other out by the traffic light. I even showed you family pictures, you even let me refill my coffee gratis. Bombard with kisses my pillows.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
[b]”The World Moves On the Back of a Turtle”[/b]
(Old rabbinical saying)
Arrange Suzan’s ribbons in a thousand ways–there is time, for the world moves on the back of a turtle! See how reluctantly sunlight and shadow move each day up and down sidewalks. You have time to tell of your love, carefully to mention each article of it, for the world moves on the back of a turtle. You have time to listen to a child’s mind growing, and very much time to comprehend and observe how each of a flower’s petals is formed. You would rush your words, you would have to rush them, if it were any different.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Blue shadows all over the Berkshires. The sea of evening is sad, a star burnt out. The wild forest may wash away like darkness. What is the black leaf of October? What is the bronze chain that holds the darkness to the wet lilac of madness? Coffee at the studio. The world’s interiors. Full moon night and our amorous goodbyes. Ultimate green leaves. Blue night sleeps in my eyes like the madness of cellos. The mountain Hovhaness sang has left its titanic footprints upon me. That which the ocean has forgotten colors October Mountain and makes music on the horizon.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
How experimental is the wet moon, how expansively laid before you, super-troubador! How like Lisa is the hour of the footprints of red steel left beside the Mekong River! Every friendly mountain is blushed with mushrooms on a blue night. Small, icy waterfall, the Yahwist rain, talk the cellos through the interiors of your golded poem. Brooks echoing primary colors, you stop on the shell light, the twisted conch. Strong dog, say goodbye to the evening, the warm hearts of mysticism and beef. Phillipines, vary your music, disregard these variations. Opinions will structure their own variations. These circles force truth.
