Chickens without media come running. I am kneeling at the edge of their electronic fence with three crumpled index cards because unlike say DH Lawrence who wrote good animal poems, I have no memory. Not much. What would I have of your fat fullness without recording. One goes back into the chicken house then two. One tries another angle, getting close to me. A truck rides by laughing. Look at the fool. Yes I am a fool for these dark darting chicken. The white chicken butt bending. Am I alone and always seeing you, Nature, as sex. Chickens move fast. Spread out. My only desire to leave you is my own desire to have breakfast. One chicken framed by the door of their house. In or out I think like my mother. The mosquitoes are fierce. Everyone gone; or bent eating. I go too. A cluster of you over there, what do you know. Boock-boock.

Strutting now to breakfast, big chicken, I realize I can finish this post with the contest which is staring me down today. I went into the box a week ago and rifled through and decided that twelve of the 38 or so were up to snuff. I made piles. Since then other judges have picked. Other judges from other contests. It’s funny to momentarily be a judge. This judge would like to have a chicken costume and a gavel.  Other judges picked a few ludicrous choices – who would want that I chortled. That’s not POETRY. Then a couple of judges I know picked from within this content. Hun-uh. Now I’m down to ten. I begin to plan a drawing of the process, a human hand reaching and judging, sealing some little poet’s fate.

Hopefuly I am a good chicken, wise. Recording refers to the beating of the heart – that’s the cord part, the re speaks for itself.  Never just buck, but buck-buck-buck.  In part nature’s sexy cause

07.31.09 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)

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