how like it is to the food we crave when we are weepy and spent,
want to chew our bodies up whole
and swallow them, to fill a museum with the cries of the dying.
No wonder Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, as did Paganini. Or that Buddy Holly played his best set
the last night of the Winter Dance Party tour, and then the little plane crashed in the Iowa cornfield.
No wonder that, as the joke has it,
the redneck's last words were, "Y'all watch this!" Or that the final thing the general said to his troops
Was, "On your feet, you cowards, their artillery can't possibly reach us at this dist--." Sometimes I wish I had a machine gun.
But I want language, too, history, jokes. Recorded music. Hot meals. I like libraries,
theaters, bookstores, though sometimes at night
when I'm walking through this city, the wind will blow the leaves past my feet, and I'll hear
a howl a few streets over and I'll think That's a dog and then That's my dog and then That's me. From "The Winter Dance Party" published in The House on Boulevard St. by David Kirby. Copyright © 2007 by David Kirby. All rights reserved....Continua