In one of her workshops Bernadette told us to write a poem about nothing. So I wrote this—
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Pow!
1
They’re having a pow-wow in Poway. While David Byrnes
his britches behind him, sits out on a limb,
brewing coffee thru conical filters,
random driplets, splash arrays, operations?
2
The lonesome cowpoke clutched his bedroll,
wishing real hard
it was a woman. Only make believe,
he humped as he sang—a humpback whale
beached on low topographical relief.
You get so alone (thank you, Buk)
at night on the prairie
even the prairie dogs
get scary.
3
He blundered into a clearing where the brush was cut back—
there he was, facing his wife. He spun back around
quick like, into the forest
looking for the grizzly who was chasing him.
4
Hare Krishna, I follow the Mishna into the Tora Bora caves.
Make mine Michelangelo. Lying on his back
under the beamer, maneuvering
on a three wheeled creeper,
he was touched by the Divine Creator,
the differential in his greasy hands.
5
This poem ends here. We’ve reached the end time,
end of the line on this train to the sublime
boneyard. Aliens are fallen angels,
ancient progenitors, breathing
our history. Believe this bright lie,
and the radiant antichrist
shines like a searchlight
from his luminous throne
in the windshield sky.
© 2007 Phil Johnson
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Bernadette looked at it and said, “That’s not about nothing.” She told me to go back and do it again. So I splattered the first poem against the wall, and I put the pieces back together. This is the result—
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Sublime Boneyard
Aliens are fallen Michelangelos, they shine in the brush.
Lonely cowboy at night on his bedroll, wishing real hard it was all rolled back and he was facing Phoenix.
You get so alone, lonesome cowpoke (thank you, Buk). Maneuvers on his back, under the beamer, luminous throne, bright flotations.
So alone (thank you bright lie). Aliens are falling angels. Ancient progenitors, breathing in celestial realms. Only make believe, at the end of the prairie, chance events, operations, only make no sense, spun back like fictions.
I’ll show you operations. See the difference in his bright lie. And the captain says: I can sail it.
I’m sucking this scary shiver me timbers, random drops above the prairie, even the tailing plane? goes down my chest.
Scatter this sand where the ship falls searching for prairie dogs, scars down a cactus. Shunt shines like a searchlight.
Flash flood, follow this flight to the end time, end time. Dial the Divine space line.
Then the crash, luminous three where we smash arrays, quick like, sucking light out a cactus. Into the clearing—Krishna, Krishna.
Boots on, he blunders into the radiant. The lonesome cowpoke ends, clutching flotation. We’ve reached his bright see-through desert.
We beached his britches behind him, sitting on history. Bequeath his bedroll to the humpback whale, wishing away, facing the differential, facing the phosphorescent throne.
The lonesome cowpoke clutching his bedroll falling from poem ends here. We’ve reached the bright lie, and a straw. Roll out the three wheeled creeper.
Hare Krishna to the brush he cleared.
Hare Krishna to the windshield sky.
© 2007 Phil Johnson
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