A kid said you could chew road tar if you got it before it cooled, black globule with a just-forming skin. He said it was better than cigarettes. He said he had a taste for it. On the same road, a squirrel was doing the Watusi to free itself from its crushed hindquarters. A man on a bicycle stomped on its head, then wiped his shoe on the grass. It was autumn, the adult word for fall. In school we saw a film called Reproduction. The little snake-father poked his head into the slippery future, and a girl with a burned tongue was conceived.
Chase Twichell - 1950-
Above the blond prairies, the sky is all color and water. The future moves from one part to another. This is a note in a tender sequence that I call love, trying to include you, but it is not love. It is music, or time. To explain the pleasure I take in loneliness, I speak of privacy, but privacy is the house around it. You could look inside, as through a neighbor's window at night, not as a spy but curious and friendly. You might think it was a still life you saw. Somewhere, the ocean crashes back and forth like so much broken glass, but nothing breaks. Against itself, it is quite powerless. Irises have rooted all along the fence, and the barbed berry-vines gone haywire. Unpruned and broken, the abandoned orchard reverts to the smaller, harder fruits, wormy and tart. In the stippled shade, the fallen pears move with the soft bodies of wasps, and cows breathe in the licorice silage. It is silent where the future is. No longer needed there, love is folded away in a drawer like something newly washed. In the window, the color of the pears intensifies, and the fern's sporadic dust darkens the keys of the piano. Clouds containing light spill out my sadness. They have no sadness of their own. The timeless trash of the sea means nothing to me— its roaring descant, its multiple concussions. I love painting more than poetry.