||[Sep. 2nd, 2012|09:02 pm]
Cicadas vibrate what's left of Sunday— all this warm darkness, the pale glow of the western sky's fringe, and the ragged silhouettes of the pines. There are crickets, too, but their chirps are difficult to discern amid the cicadas' din. With luck, the crickets will outlast the cicadas, though. |
Come November there might still be a few crickets ensconced in the warmest spots of yards, but the last cicadas will have become snacks for the feral cats. The chirps will be few and slow and will emphasize how the nights grow emptier as autumn consumes the remains of the year. The leaves will molder where they lie cloaking the ground under the shrubs, while others will skitter along the street where the chilly breezes sweep them.
Oh, I can hardly wait.
by Marvin Bell
He believes the tar pits hold bones but preserve
no emotions, and he believes space is matter.
He still thinks a kiss with full lips transformative,
the hope of a country boy with an uncultivated
heart, from the era of doo-wop and secret sex,
when the music was corny, clichéd and desperate
like teenage love. Who now will admit that poetry
got its start there, in the loneliness that made love
from a song on red wax, from falsetto nonsense.
Who does not know that time passing passes on
sadness? A splinter of a song lyric triggers shards
of memory and knots in his gut. He regrets he was
lashed to the mast when the sirens called. He
believes the sea is not what sank or what washes
up. There are nights the moon scares him.