errol miller
LURA LURA LURA
Now this is the mundane story:
aqua-blue storks have flapped away delirious
a green moll from Chicago says she loves me
Granny is dead and apples dry on tin roofs
the White River is rising and I
long for Buffalo Country, out upon the edge
of life an awesome distant charting
other semi-English brothers
pouring Southern Comfort into open wounds
I am the point man for literature
draped in Spanish moss, yellow unruled paper
admiring the run of the bull, the fin of the trout
from back of glamorous Paris nights they pull
the tattered bamboo shades of sanity
they perform their inkblot Western faces
they program the horses for change
out past Des Moines on sleepless nights
silent freighters sail to Zanzibar
with running lights extinguished
moths circle kerosene lamps
as someone arrives from across the hallway
start your motors, please, the music
of the sensuous future has arrive
we are on a rocket ship leading nowhere
we are moving out alone
to the far-out galaxy Argo, soon
it will be autumn downtown in Chicago
all the coming, all the going
just the Iceman and his silver tongs
extracting an eye for an eye
dripping mercuric membrane fluid
as one white candle flickers solitary
illuminating the other pale shore
and a fallen moon in menopause.
