Portends by Eric Westerlind
for the thing that came before.
for the hours of palms, spent leaf fronds, the scatter of coconut oil on the back
of a shower wall.
for a restful night in a trench, and for a crust of sawdust around the
thorax of a beetle
for beetles, the living crust around the earth's core.
for magma. for Christ's sake.
for the thing that drifts down at sunset with a big sign telling everyone - go inside, the Christians are coming,
there's work to be done in the bedroom.
for all ten dreams that flashed faster and faster, one an etch a sketch, the next an earthquake,
for so on, and so forth
for passing lanes, blow up dolls, and iron. For rust, ruin, dashed hopes,
damp cloths, wet naps, rough seas - for the porpoise
for the wrong title on the last poem
for fences, and guidelines, spritzer in a glass, for the bubbles, for her, for her smile, for her miscarriage
for fresh faces, for the soft cloth of a bib and for burping
for last Wednesday, last summer, a classy laugh - for frenzy and guardians and expenditures, and for small people who can't hope to reach the top floor
for the world's sky, for another sour lime and a rush hour drive and for auburn: the color, the beautiful woman, the school, the time of day
for all phrases of moon, and for the dirt that crumbles, sadly again, in a clenched fist
for gravity, sanity, for the placid and the place, for a series of hyphens that are close, but ultimately a waste of time
for the line, and the French, their coffee, their moustaches
for the unmowed grass under a father's corpse, for midafternoon, dandelions, for trowels, ticks, and the taste of toothpaste
for a legacy, for the lake, that summer in Alaska, for mosquitoes and olive oil, toast, sand, rough skin, and for the pleasure of breathing
for pace, power, portents, p's and crimps, skin, sashes, trash, bends in the road, the hem of a skirt, the lash of a whip, the breast, the dish, the banter, the crush - for senses, tense thoughts, a loose leash
for the worst heat in years
for the day before today, and the one before that
for a range, so vast, and a hat, just resting, on the saddle of a porch
for boulders, fields of them, for sign language and the right time to say the last thing anyone ever dreamed would be said so loud,
for that, yes
and for hands, a moment
for veins and vultures, and the slap of a splayed wave, for memory and blue balls, and hernias, for fasting and juice, for ridiculous, for high school sports
for pulp, black leather, thin lenses, and that split in the base of an oak tree that is wide and coated in sap
for Hershey, Pennsylvania, for the Beatles
for the beat of a harbor, heart attacks, and for drowning - for seals, for barking and fish, for flops and blood and more, always for more
for rest breaks, rest stops, sun blots, spotted leopards, jungles in general,
for landings, stairwells, for basements, for fresh snow
for eating fresh snow
for eating snow
for eating fresh
for belts, and buckles, for chin straps and zippers, Andrew and his attitude, and spinsters, troubadours, and for words without a w or an a or an r in them
for lawyers, for thwarted, for worn down, born agains, for the hardest mother fuckers in the South
for friends underground, impounded, over seas, aloof, underfoot, for dogs, both small and sinister - for crystals and cackling, for the portion of time spent rationing food on the last day
for avocados. for the greenest butter the earth can poop
for the rush of standards, for grids, gaps in teeth, for character and plot and for the cast of Lost
for sounds like oh, ee, stay, plush, spunk, lunge, dagger, scratch, thirst, whore, lackey, cornhusk, split a sun, send, curse, fast, spat, lap, gunk, gulp and sin
for single, for Jove, for bisexuals and liberty, libraries, candy and the last slug of whiskey
for finals week, for periods, again, for full moons and blowjobs and thunder and spin cycles and dirges and the Greeks
for the Black Keys, for rock, for lightsabers and penny mags and sick tricks and glasses and tight jeans and smocks and blazers and bull cuts
for hearts, the queen of spades, her lovers, all lovers,
for Maggie's and harpies, for a gloss of sweat on her lips
for the hole that's dug and the pie that's baked
for indulgence, for the mind
for the last minute, the thought that comes as you're standing in line.
for a bean, and a plant, and a place in the sky
for the trees and the sex, and for the rest, the rise in a chest,
for culled, sorting, the lash and a pulse of pepper in eggs. for breakfast, oh -
for Ellsworth and Ignatius, for language, second helpings, rats, for water in the mouth and the span of time Spain ruled its own country
for knots, porridge, for a hundred boys lost in a hedge. for a giant's thunder and a lee breeze and a cold shoulder and a high rise.
for serious people who have hands made of Crisco and raccoons on their feet
for the patience it takes and
for ten lines, two hundred syllables, for a mouthful of garbage and the last ride ever made by Jesse James, for his necklace and hat, and the men he loved
for the eraser, the taser, the chaser, the booze, the bitch, the bender, the morning after - for the French, again, there in the light, but not in the dark
for fastidious, for edits, for the couch, the slump - for the proud brow, the storm, the lip, for upper and dinner, and the day that goes by where everything is the way it shouldn't have been
for acceptance and rollicking, words like cowlick, paltry, unbendable, sporty, knick knack, space cadet,
for sound and rumpus and brouhaha
for a dream that means more than blue
for a face, sunny trails, for cacti and catfish, novice and acolyte, for amateur, for hurdles and patience, once more
for Microsoft, and VPN and MSN and sent texts and melted wax and a life of fingertips and the dirt on the ridges of a glass, and the jagged but unanswered cry of mourn,
for four, forlorn and a bridge, from my world to yours
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All reviews by Greg Bem unless marked otherwise.
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