Sunday, January 15, 2006

From the Cave: Pilosi


My apologies brother, my rink was always open to the sky.
It was dug out of hillsides, and by the time I got there,
the boards were mostly rotten through, the wires remained
but the bulbs did not. Each team had a reservoir, there were
only two large tanks, dry enough to walk into, where every
summer I even sloshed alone through the water even after
the ice had melted.

The buckets of water that you would bring back sometimes,
too stubborn to even drop a few rocks in there for those poor frogs.
I can’t believe I could be confused, or like a seagull growing too dim
Standing on a pier, with a stick of tar between my teeth for what?
These people look for straw men among the trees as they already
forgot to feel what they couldn’t think.

They would turn pilosi as if they were their own.
Not so. Never so. Can never be so. They jumped
Their jigs straight into the old peat, engines of time
Where would you carry us back? Vierkeshanzen?
I think not. Post-no goes time. No post time.
Show them how long a brother waits
thank-you for this. Trouble yes,

Much like the rattle of a ducks beak, upon the outside
of it’s chosen chamber door. How many times I have
to say this is not some barn here. Obviously never sat
on the off-season roads long enough to gather large
chunks of seaweed, which require some chomp or bite.

You want me to walk down and sit for an hour at the Metro Centre
Even though you came home not dying, some of the people around
You were dying a little bit, every day they did not chase there dreams
Even if they were not hard work, some did not show the least wear.
As if to say that ground is good, now the hill grows empty, a furrow
Of alders understanding what was once there, once enough,
How many years, I served the rink popcorn and pop anyway.

The greatest arena stands in Efes?

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