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Monday, October 17, 2011

The Cemetery Sideshow

        Cemetery Sideshow
          To Frank Smith, Jr.

The Cemetery                                                 Sideshow

The barbed fence                                                The barbed fence,
you insisted was keeping                                    the burning hummed-
intruders out and not us in                                    over scent of flesh
loomed against New York’s                                    long dumped into a set
only constant—light                                                of cascading waterfalls—
spitting upward to                                                 reflected Native-American
the unabashedly nude                                                 dream catchers besotted
sky.  A plane gargled                                                 with lies and the absolute
and grunted over us                                                zero of dry ice tears.
moving diagonally                                                 The little patches of grass
from the South to the Northern                        so intricately green           
plantation of cloudless                                                underneath the light
refractions of black-blue                                    of lampposts and postage
night.  An amorous reaper                                    stamps and other carnal
scraping it’s heavy tool                                     trespasses and circus votives
along a flight path long torn                                    on sale. The sixty six-year-old
open with brutally ineffable                                    survivor pacing.  The sixty-six-
“whys?”  Wisława couldn’t tell                                    year-old smells of Polish camps
us, neither can you, officer,                                    begin to prevail.  The pink
and neither can K. or I. Wisława                        dump-truck eyelids
couldn’t give us a last line,                                    of an overfed Lilith and
neither can you, officer,                                    daughter, Lolita, squint
and neither can K. or I.                                       as a flash of light freezes
                                                                                    their fat
                                                                                    elbows
                                                                                    pressed
                                                                                    against
                                                                                    the en-           
                                                                                    graved
                                                                                    names
                                                                                    fallen
                                                                                    to the
                                                                                    light
                                                                                    and
the
                                                                                    air.





© 2011 (Pending), Peter Burzynski



So the formatting became weird for the second tower when I pasted it here, but I kinda like it and am going to leave it that way online.  I can email you the text with the straight lines too.  


Video:


http://youtu.be/cOptyargwZ4

An Old Poem of Mine That Was Published a While Back

It is the last two poems on this page (1 Polish,  1 English) Here's the link Kritya.in