How fortunate coote has a known editor fall at his feet. Grand Canyon's big box gift to po-eat. Magic real métaphysique.
If Charles Ives' quotation of camp meeting hymns gives natural
fervency, then Coyte's set pieces, "Samaritan of the Cold," "I Loved
Blood," "Now the White Warm Bread" and "Daffodog" warm their hands beside.
'Yote lifts Song of Myself, Scarlet Pimpernel,
Shelley's Defense and a refrain from Lycidas to new heights. He takes Come Go With Me
to the Dark Town Strutters Ball, the Dust Bowl Troubadour, Why Oh. Do ya hear animal speech remixed in Poe's Cask and Marston's Malcontent, nursery rhyme, Some Enchanted
Evening? Attendez! Coyote's matern. Franklin's middling skeletons in the basement of his
London quarry Carver right out of the bone of Lish! Is this a message? Stop All Oneness,
it is, even if the last reference to Iisaw, yo, turns vicious. That coyote
eats the editor in the end we may doubt. How's he to get published? To
solve these questions we tramped Grand
Canyon
hatless and burned by the Angel sun. These descents made perfect happiness, and
when not hiking, to sketch pastels on the rim while our daughter
perfected the call of ravens, sun, heat, rain and snowbowl cold gave
what Joan Eardley breathed up from the sea. There was not then much passion
to guard the rim. Golfers could tee up and drive Mars. Men called to
their women that it all needed filling in. Serendipity beyond the counsel of lit, this story, denied half a year ago, still provoked inquiry whether Ai-ai-oo-oo was
running, as the editor says, "to just push madly into the wilderness
without care...and come out with something." This is strum not sturm,
for coyote can't spell. Type faces, sizes, links, spacing, paragraphs
are preserved as is. Not one addition, deletion, changed word, corrected
broken usage of misspelling, punctuation in all these crimes and
misdemeanors could be found. Not even a sigh! It is a perfect breakdown
of the editorial process.
Coyotes' mad cause he’s hunted all the time. He really loves dogs, but talks
like that to get even with owners. Thinks he Walt Bernard. A poet. The guy on
the hillside is a lit agent. He get ate is further allegatory. Coyo talks to
his mom, the agent, even to you, but mainly he moans the song-most thing on his
mind: food. Volare, oh oh. This is that tale from the desk of Pedro Escadero all
that many moons ago.
Coyote ABC
A was for apple I cut up for food.
B was for the baby bird I visit after school.
We ate the hot fry.
D, when day was over, I could see the moon.
But my Binky could not rise.
Rise up you stars of stew.
I flown down a brandy,
a ruff-cask pooch with stuff.
Diddle down them animals,
Iron or ivory, with the nerve to call.
We get to know each other.
I am poet of Body and Soul. What-A-Dog Cosmos!
No comments:
Post a Comment