Let the Snake Wait Under His Weed

A SORT OF A SONG
—William Carlos Williams

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.

—through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

______________________

The Snake is indeed waiting under his weed as I type-type-type; Snake 8 will "hit the stands" next week. Be sure to attend Bill Gainer's reading on DECEMBER 14 at The Book Collector (not the 7th!) and pick up a free copy. Also appearing that evening will be Indigo Moor, who will read from his new littlesnake broadside, Nomads. Herewith is a sample:


NOMADS
—Indigo Moor, Rancho Cordova

For six days we purify metal.
Sleepwalking through sulfur clouds.
A few pennies forged with every muscled
clang of pig iron and rust. Friday’s
whistle, our Pavlovian call to bedlam,
triggers us down to dogs.

Saturday, we hang our checks
on new shoes, silk ties, gold chains.
Scrub iron ore from our fingers,
coke dust from faces before slow fading
from day to night. A bottle of gin
passes between us. We stiff leg
and hip drop a pimp down the boulevard.

We tug our hats down—our faces
become curved horizons with brown,
felt suns rising askew. Walking the bricks,
we crave music worth killing for:
manna soaked in bourbon; grilled
over hot Mississippi coals.

The Easy Lion Jazz Joint exhales
the intoxicating vibration
of wood-stomp and tremor-slide.
Bass so cold it shatters hot breath.
The sax man’s vibrato wrenches
moans from our bodies.
Sways us into fevered cattails
wrapped in sweat and silk.
Spit-shined leather begins to fly.

Two more juke joints before sunrise.
A plate of ribs and a whiskey sour.
Sunday morning is a hangover
hard as an I-beam stove into our heads.
All too soon, the factory whistle.

___________________

Thanks, Indigo!

Tonight (12/5), the Sacramento Poetry Center features Mary Zeppa and Stan Zumbiel at HQ (25th and R Sts., Sac.), 7:30 pm. It's all about—


THE POEM
—William Carlos Williams

It's all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song.
It should

be a song—made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian—something
immediate, open

scissors, a lady's
eyes—waking
centrifugal, centripetal

____________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)