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spring 2012



featuring the art of Bill Rogers

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The Green Morning
spring 2012

The balcony window is open
Above mosquitoes and thieves
Above the Ho Ho Here We Come
Of bump-keys in the night
Above the followers-home of late nighters
Stirring in oak infested side-yards
Waiting for moments of hostile access
Above alienated neighbor kids
Entering lawns they once might have mowed
To hang their cocks over long grass
And piss on rotting sheds
Above local thugs stealing faux crystal from the front porch
And brazenly trying the knob

But here twenty stories up
The sound of the surf becomes our woodpecker drum
Knitting us into
The secret things that grow in darkness
The next thing I know is a long green silence
A snowy owl under glass
And mid-size land tortoises stealing night salad
Behind the red lamp of the Holy Infant Of Prague
We descend to the waves below
Going twenty stories down another way
To darkness but not to heat
To barnacles and warm water on cold sand
The foreheads of human tigers crash into our flesh
They walk on our bladders and bite the sides of our hands
Our bodies confer a glowing imprint onto black cloth
As we fall into to the dark back half of the world
Where clocks tell off the hours
With the tongues of birds
Like phantom sentries drawing magical seals on a night beach

During the coffee hour
The couch becomes my lotus throne
Cool air awakens my naked skin
In pointillist carpets of awareness
Beyond a planar world of angels and Egyptian gods
Past where owls alight on dowel rods
And the least killies congregate under warm towels
Here the national bird of Myanmar struts under oaks and thick vines
I gaze both fuzzy and clear into this cube of living green
Transforming all I encounter into a kind of Śarabha with the head of Ricky Nelson as a youth
He carries a twin-serpent crozier in his right hand, a Thomson's Gazelle in his left
His forehooves tame the god of fear
And the locus of this work is a secret ring of heat
Formed where a hot mug rests on my left inner thigh

And then off we go
To a house built of cedar
To gaze through the Charbel window
To be drowned in and buoyed up by a Syriac ocean
Before the long lazy middle hour of the day

~Bill Rogers
May 17th, 2012

(originally conceived in October of 2011)
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