Los contemporary poesy & art
Edited by Virginia M. Geoffrey, I.B. Scrood, P.N. Bouts, M. Peel, M. Hardy		2008/III
Peter Layton Fighting Dragons Streptococcus walked here. Perhaps trillions of eons ago. Slacked jawed, did they possess insight? Scientists are not sure. They pick up a piece of flint try to see into it. They seem to have the ability to imagine the scientists not the beasts although we are not sure. Going back into time wondering, maybe rightly that that could it perhaps be possible at this creek bed in the forlorn slumbered past days and this Thermador so distant so impossible shy and sad eating these rare leaves here postulating while it dwells a hundred billion trillion million some odd years moping here, looking maybe for kills, sleeping giants? Could this massive or small thing humbling yet here and bring to mind us here biting our teeth, going through candied popcorn, hunched over a pan pizza and pissing ghosts’ TV?

Causes

You can stand at the Grand Canyon rim

think about the splitting of sun rays.

You may think about whom you’ve been here with.

Look down.

The long hurt past days

still divide.

You may see the dust of an opposite rim.

Someone who has left may be there.

Looking back as if it is all one huge mirror.

And the river from here seems black.

Have dinosaurs walked here?

Are they still?

In A Dust Bin

The wind swipes at my visor

and trees grow and pass.

Goggle sized mountains

white camouflaged deserts

insect sap dotted on the way.

You are with me we’ll

travel to vacant corners.

People with rice for teeth.

A hundred miles of loss now exists

in almost every direction.

This Turns Out Being This

Into the brush of the night winds

the sharp nasal smell of sage.

Now glowing purple in the cool low light.

You are here I know,

exsanguinated now dreamily so

and you are beautiful.

In each of these breaths you are

coaxing with the white sand breeze the

gold of the high above high above dust lamp stars.

Silos Up To Here In Onion Crop

In the middle of the country with its

wheat colored alleys

cold skinned wheat colored girls their

boxcar ice eyes

maybe dreaming of me here

an automobile that does not go

worse than if it

were on blocks

in an unshady front yard

seeing

as you can there

a hundred odd miles

brick hot pain.

President Bush—Pardon Neutra’s Cyclorama at Gettysburg