Wednesday, July 1, 2009



I have no song.

Think consonants --
hard beads
at the back of my throat

Think black fan
snapped open.

Think Hasidim,

on a sandy beach

Eve Joseph

This Crow

knows who I am
& what I do here.Knows where he goes,
knows who owns what,
knows what's what.
Knows he knows.

His big broad voice
lets me know, too.

We belong here both.
Both know it well.

Our cats, my wife, and he,
on this tiny territory
on this round earth,
for all it's worth,
birds above,
worms and bugs below.

small and black,
the shining buttons
he wears
for eyes
placed each side
on his lustrous skull,
seeing me
quite perfectly.

From his tall tree,
he yells at me,

see you later
in hell

haw haw haw

no need
for hurry.
I can wait
& so can he.

Sooner or later
is soon enough.

A black wire runs
from house
through tree.

Upon this he sits,
just one more branch
on his black tree,
beneath his black eyes
and his black feet.

On the bottoms
of those sharp black feet
electrons itch:

our human speech
too pale and soft for him
and his harsh dark voice.

Time alone will tell
who will be the last
to leave.

Him or me.

haw haw haw

Jamie Reid


Those fucking crows those four brilliant
gawking crows almost shoulder to shoulder
on the roof's ridge

that oily sun and the pale cloth of sky
slim fingers shaping the thin bone
of a perfect blue cloud

the crows have wrecked the street
with their curses, they preen in anticipation
and are ready.

The bushes and the trees are silent
and reach for a possible suicide
from the hanging
balcony above

and those four crows in their purple soutanes
their birettas nodding as they wait for
another view

the work of crows is sometimes the work of murder
but always the work of
witness and last rites

the cloud has charred and begun to crumble
falling in flakes in soot and ashes
all over the world
the crows hunch beneath the ash
growing grey and annoyed as they endure a death
that no one sees.

Patrick Friesen

in praise of bad things

praise milfoil weed, long green strands snagging the motors of powerboat; praise man-eating grizzly bears and up-tight Iranians; praise rust, mold, moths, racoons, buzzards, housemice, sharks; everything that breaks us down and cleans up the mess and drives us on to think and plan and turn ourselves about.

praise the hawk that steals the heron's fish; praise the heron raising her true harsh cry of protest; praise the biker gang of local crows and the seven angelic screaming gulls that wheel about together at last calling;

drop it
drop it
drop it

and the humans on the shore.
that call out

yay gulls
yay crows
go go go go

Maxine Gadd, Backup to Babylon, New Star Books, 2006


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