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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Poetry by Ray Succre

July 1979

Summer afternoon and the paper

wasps druzzing near the porch.

Playing the red truck across sidewalk,

pushing it hauling stones, debris.

Listening to Santana from the lawn,

FM radio alarm, old, given to kids.

Smell of baking yards and mowers.

Grass imprints on knees and legs.

Hovering insects and bombination;

spinning hymenopters aflare past an ear.

The songs and then

the lightning in a wrist.





Materias

Of blackened marble eyes in the strepped,

twitting heads of birds,

of ants in cue-balls, corner-pocketing bits

of debris to store in a hill,

of feeling for engines, smoke blue

and the rotor striking lawn,

of ladyfingers in wasp nests, blastcaps

in down pillows, gasoline in floodlights,

of water pouring clean from the ribs

of a ghost in the Christ of Nazareth,

of pigs tined beneath ears and hind-leg hung

to cause the bacon, ham and else exist,

of hospital myths, and shrubbery ticks,

and woodboar teeth, and of a woman

leashed to another buried in dog hair,

come the details of my kind.

Of each material, they stray by minute.

Of their own volition, they are scale-sized.




The Philipino Woman

One candle-armed woman shelling Ostrea

at the bench, and razor clams after sleepwalking

noon. The oysters turn as they lift,

then the jab, twist, snap, shuck,

from the bench.

She owns a schedule of tides in her own,

knows them low for high,

and all a cause of moon's place,

and even red tide from this place.

The two brown men come and spray

down the bench, and the thin, metal shucks

and bowls, soak the floor with a cloth hose lake.

They drain the flood by a draw at center dock,

for wait of its sitting dry by air,

and the woman sits in the puddle wood,

woman with gashed rough hands spent

long at the pry.




Amphetamania

The aborted notion of authority,

the accurate wetness of violence—

in these introverted men

see frivolity spun into discord,

and an unchecked, edgeless amperage.

The blaring emotion and its stifled check,

short-spoken, tweaked, criminative.

They can find extroversion

tucked into pipes and tipped atop scales,

and hurry the bursting,

offer it registration and field.

It provokes them, moments latched

faster, becoming the most temporary

comprehension of their times.



Bio: Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com

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