so hard to be the priest of rock
(or wind for that matter)
where we don't have perfect prayers
or any prayers that work real magic.
i used to believe
it was the fault of america
gone to the rats
the feathers of dead species of bird
do not purify the sky
rock needs no priest
as it transforms itself from the guts
of the earth
to projectiles dancing in a dark sky
wind knows its own songs
* * * *
LETTER: re:LEONARD
the agates have quit talking. i listened. only the surf stuttering.
perhaps you have saved one or two in
jars somewhere. for the nights when the screaming through tall timber
is not the wind.
were you wating for me to appear out of the fog. perhaps the clocks
i created were wrong. i ended up
on your door as something other than the expected ghost. the stone
you stubbed your toe on.
the good life is a lie. the only thing that sucked more dreams from
the old bones - the cold sheets. ha, i
tells you, brother - the wind over slow rivers knows truth. just like
cows in a field knowing the greener
grass across the highway, eating just the same.
* * * * *
FOR CHRIS DANIELS
packin' rock - sweatin' pure
-was you seein visions of Israelites
building temples for Pharoah - Berkeley
ain't zactly Memphis, but Isis sho'
smiled upon the ripples
in yo back, man.
packin' rock - ain't zactly beboppin'
but pure as belly of gulls that chant
the perfect incantation to morning over
haze of a bay.
* * * * *
(c)Kenn Mitchell, 1997
Kenn lives in Eugene, Or... Published work includes the book "POETRY OF THE DEFORMED" by Pygymy Forest Press. A second book, from the same publisher, is due out in Oct. or Nov. 1997
KEN MITCHELL'S HOME PAGE:including info on his new book