Monday, December 21, 2009

NEW! 3 poems by David Dodd Lee

David Dodd Lee


The day eats itself then expires

Moths, dirty people

The animals match their blood to the earth and sky in that place

His face was the size of a pin cushion

Old lambs die young in this country



'cause I've got this ukulele in a bucket

star light, star bright

I've got a ukulele in a bucket

and this very small songbook

he's a police officer

riding a horse down old Seville Parkway in the dead of summer

the crab grass blossoms in her hair

the smell of heavy sedation

then I think to myself, self

the wagon sits in its own tropical shadow

does the ground see the wood, the wood look down at the ground?

there are many quarters falling out of the moon

and into the galvanized moat-of-the-lute

that cemetery seems like a dream to me now

but only on the real object

do the spokes fly backwards


Scrape of shovel

Sediments of meaning multiplying in the woods

It's noisy down around our ankles

The land groans and shudders with broken bottles

Every time I look around I sink into this deepening of reclamation

Milk of Magnesia

An animal with its eyes sealed off

Dr. Pepper bottle embossed with an image of a clock

the fluids that drip on one’s skin

A twig dragged along the naked back to where the ass flares and begins to reverberate

Complete irrelevance

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