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Thread: Donor (Wind)

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    Donor (Wind)

    The throat is optional,
    as is the larynx.
    What small object
    can you pull
    through the pink?
    Many things died
    here: a nest, an oil
    leak, a typewriter
    ribbon's language
    of bile and thread.
    Spread my useless
    parts in the city
    dump, spleen
    fondled by seagulls,
    vertebrae plucked
    by lonely men.
    Tape my useless
    parts together again
    and I'm your dis
    appearing shatter.
    Your snowflake
    in heat. Now feed
    me to the wind
    where I belong.
    .






    In a perfect world, our dreams will be fulfilled. There would be no hard work or planning ahead, because everything you want would be given to you. In the real world, where we all live, rewards must be earned. The problem most people have is in the day-to-day details of accomplishment. Accomplishment takes a lot of time, sacrifice and effort, and that’s the real rub for a lot of people. But, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”

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    Re: Donor (Wind)

    Speech

    I have come to you
    alone

    a green
    word

    growing
    an inward landscape

    The force I believe
    I have been conversing in

    is human
    .






    In a perfect world, our dreams will be fulfilled. There would be no hard work or planning ahead, because everything you want would be given to you. In the real world, where we all live, rewards must be earned. The problem most people have is in the day-to-day details of accomplishment. Accomplishment takes a lot of time, sacrifice and effort, and that’s the real rub for a lot of people. But, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”

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    Re: Donor (Wind)

    State & Wacker
    A man once lived ... who found on the quay of Sligo a package containing
    three hundred pounds in notes. It was dropped by a foreign sea captain.
    This my man knew, but said nothing. It was money for freight ...
    —W. B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight

    1

    Gulls gliding round the lighthouse
    that stands far out on a jetty
    complain, complain nearby
    over the river, sounding like
    cats or a boy crying Ow!


    2

    In the subtropical nineteen-thirties
    my young father and a young friend
    buddied up to work as longshoremen
    for a few dollars a day and lucky
    to get it on the Houston Ship Channel,
    till one hot Thursday morning
    the friend was crushed by a bale,
    five hundred pounds, of cotton
    dropped on him for reasons men
    believed at the time—loyalty this way,
    loyalty that. And believe now.
    The very next moment my father walked,
    never returning for anything—
    lunch, lunch bucket or pay.

    Young men owning little, owing little
    to anyone else, masters of nothing,
    aiming not to be owned.

    There was a boxer who could move
    a bale of cotton an inch with one punch.

    The Ship Channel stank of spilled crude oil,
    rotted fruit, diesel fuel, dead fish,
    and the one second it takes something
    you don't wish to fall, to fail.
    That too has a smell worth remembering.


    3

    Go north, now, go further back:
    For longshoremen, for years,
    historical hooves of horses and mules,
    sonorous, everyday,
    mythical, stopped
    clopping on streets and
    at the Chicago River drummed
    loud on wharf planking.

    Work boats—tenders, lighters—
    loaded and offloaded barges,
    long lines were dipped into deep schooners
    wedged close at piers and riverside
    docks. Ships converged where
    there was freight, hauling lumber,
    iron ore, wares, hemispheres;
    ships going out carried steel,
    grain, gravel, finished goods
    and evils, all of this
    is finished. Outbound and in
    they floated, urged by wind
    or with steam power walking
    across the deep lake.

    Peering into lightless warehouses,
    into dank dim hatches, holding
    a fistful of pale papers,
    men called out, signaled
    cranking cranes,
    hooked crates and barrels and bales.
    Heavy cargo creaked up, dangled down.
    Stevedores working, stevedores looking.
    Looking out.
    Taking a stand. Standing clear.
    Taking a break with a smoke.


    4

    Out on the lake, stack-plumes
    and freighters inch along,
    knowing or not knowing
    what they reiterate. Or anchored
    in harbor flocks, pleasure-sails
    and silenced power growlers
    rock like big guitars.
    Songs for lifting and heaving and having
    to labor rise only
    in electric clubs at night.
    Weightless dollar transactions
    cross waters on the backs
    of electrons and we too
    in our bodies ride, rattling
    toward work, cross.
    In rain or sun (How good), over
    the river bridges (it is),
    inside tinny trains in debt
    (to be alive). We peer down
    through rusted trestles at
    the backwards river that
    does not remember.
    .






    In a perfect world, our dreams will be fulfilled. There would be no hard work or planning ahead, because everything you want would be given to you. In the real world, where we all live, rewards must be earned. The problem most people have is in the day-to-day details of accomplishment. Accomplishment takes a lot of time, sacrifice and effort, and that’s the real rub for a lot of people. But, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”

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    Re: Donor (Wind)

    The Fallen Thing

    In Memoriam F.P., downed at the edge of the Everglades

    Having failed to see the thing in flight, and talk failing,
    there being no solace
    in knowing details—the clean snap of one wing, the plunge—
    I saw instead what was left,
    riding at 14 to a crash site, certain
    imagination must
    be worse than truth. We stood among the smattering
    of what remained: splinters
    of instrument and frame, a seatbelt clasp, a piece
    of helmet; his pilot friends—
    all fathers, my father—blanched in the sun, toeing,
    toeing the gravel, turning
    circles over the blasted earth; the pilgrimage
    each made but never talked
    about, the funeral not ritual enough;
    an absence that wasn't, then was;
    a sawgrass-covered hole we couldn't find now with a map.
    .






    In a perfect world, our dreams will be fulfilled. There would be no hard work or planning ahead, because everything you want would be given to you. In the real world, where we all live, rewards must be earned. The problem most people have is in the day-to-day details of accomplishment. Accomplishment takes a lot of time, sacrifice and effort, and that’s the real rub for a lot of people. But, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”

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    Re: Donor (Wind)

    None of This Could Be Metaphor

    The experts tell us dolphins strand themselves
    when they become disoriented, injured or sick.
    Yet such explanations fail as numbers grow.
    Off the coast of Florida more than forty
    belly themselves onto flats and sandbars.

    As the tide goes out, leaving less than a foot
    of the sea, more swim in. If the only stipulation
    for beauty is color and form, these corals the sun
    casts in rising and falling upon the lengths
    of their sides, the lines of their backs, would suggest

    a map, directions for a way back to the waters
    where none of this could be metaphor, where
    dolphins leap, not for some abstract notion
    of joy, but because it feels good to lift the body
    out of the arms of the sea, even if only

    for a matter of seconds, to feel the flesh fall
    back toward the current, the tide's movements
    tugged by the moon, the taste of salt, the refraction
    of light beneath the water's surface.
    .






    In a perfect world, our dreams will be fulfilled. There would be no hard work or planning ahead, because everything you want would be given to you. In the real world, where we all live, rewards must be earned. The problem most people have is in the day-to-day details of accomplishment. Accomplishment takes a lot of time, sacrifice and effort, and that’s the real rub for a lot of people. But, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”

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