Ain’t No Beauty Breakin’ Windows To Get Noticed ‘Round Here


Feeling a bit ill this morning, but always like the joker above—just a second or two away from a juggle or a leap. An old poem to entertain:

Smell the poor poet of 1910
working on his poems
with a pencil
and bare feet
Should be a lazy creek
lumbering by
with a pole stuck in the dirt
Clean trout with sucker lips
swimming certainly.
Young man’s new paper
cost his dinner plus a penny
The pencil he made
in his father’s workshop.
“My son’s retarded,”
says the father to the man
of the tall hat and cane.
“What was that?” asked the man.
“Just another winda broken.
He does it all the time
in the summertime.
Then he’ll get work
to get da money
to repair it,
and break another winda.”

I see the poor poet
lying in the crikgrass,
smelling his fingers for worms.
She comes down the hill
holding the dress to her knees,
“Hello Orcali,” she says,
smiling with teeth
white as wheat tops.
She sits stormy
in the wet air,
a green sky and forked lightning.
“Do you want to kiss my lips?
Will you touch my body, Orcali?”
“What’s this my handsome man?
A poem?
Oh I love your little
dreams on paper.
I love your big hand too
on my knee
Your mouth on my neck.
I love the sound of the slow water,
the finches in the bush,
the crow on the corn,
the feel of you
pushing my ruffles up,
Oh Orcali—
“Jesus Fred!
Control that boy!
Breaking windows!
It’s got to drive Helen mad—
the swarms of black flies
and squeeters in the kitchen!”
“Oh Mr. Bangs
my son’s retarded
and very careless
But if Orcali didn’t break a winda
after writin’ one of dem girl poems—
he’d strangle every single one of us.”

Day 3 NPR begging your money to infiltrate your aquifer.

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