Poem by Our Brother Jeffers

Bone Salad

Bleached gateways hanging beyond a whiteness into the sac
of the recessive, no-wind the only wind to speak of, a chant
of hair, out lowing, brokered by this plug of sun gore, I eats
air, you eats air, we all eats us some air. Twilight in the ink

cuffs of grilled sat-down, I cain’t come home, cain’t nohow,
twilight in the heat sink, a null gaping, and the tracts of old
boneshines, tomorrow is Jack on Fire. What we serves we
serves in style. Hot plates a-stagger. You know the secret

when they milk you the secret, guessing is a sucker’s chock,
each step another puzzle, flanked by what must be children,
but seem different somehow, like scissors in someone else’s
hands, ashface is, as ashface is, leached salts slow the drone.

In the root cellar of the canyons wolf spiders bitch amongst
themselves, green eyes shining, gearing up for another night
in the scrub, the scouring of the blanched grasses and dried
clouds quarter-folded into the cliffs, come morning it’s back

to flash fry, come morning, the pale slog of the zero and its
wildering flak into fullness. The kettling, and the brooming
in of the bone salad from the steeper cool of the gone below,
we done charred the tie rods, what’s left is all you’ll own to.

Comments

[Martijn]

Hey now: this Jeffers Poem should not go unpraised. It is wonderful and did me a lot of good earlier this morning here at the grey self hate factory. The poem is too rich and difficult for my clumsy retarded grasp of English, but some morsels of it made delightful stains on my shirt when I spilled it all over my front. Go Jeffers!

[UF Mike]

Your metaphor is a wonder to behold. Spilled morsels indeed!

[Jeffers]

Hey, I just mosied out of the viral storm I saw coming. I've been down since saturday morning. Bonecrushing headache, a 12 hour ride on the vomit bus, followed by more headache & fever. I think I am finally pullin out of this. But hey, thanks Martjin! Brothermine! Now I think it's back to sitting down. Christ.