Treasure Island

Luke J. Holt

(1-14-91 / fullerton CA)

Sparkleharm


the morn a-glint with sparkleharm
ready the heaving dozens
bundle the busy hands
scrape the phlegm and crust of new January

hold a yellow horn to shine a beaming coin off the sheet of amorphous white
turn on the stove and strangle a spoon in soup
heat the wind-sheared heart and all its sonic tatters within a dim box where those who grind their teeth and souls whine of bluster

a fence built in crystallized sap of overcasts heavy with dirty rain frozen

the boiler burps a thermostat groan and wheezes warm wind smelling of lint and dog fur

trees nod
like bells agreeing with snow
inside a wolf-colored cabin a flannel man slow-cooks hot stew while an American rabbit worries for the sky
and prays to the hole in its filter

inside a book screams a hollow must to a secret nose stuffed with tar and a little piece of a feather

the gales create blanched explosions from the powdery rooftops.
night crumbles into now
the swollen matte of a suicidal heaven
rushing herds of fat cirrus
with undulant, mammoth poise and old-sneaker grey and screaming

sky as machine pathos
sky as murder maker
sky as affirmation that our planet is misanthropic
like me
like Washington
D.C.

burrowing just as they believe the winter will end with a gate and elation

sleet as cytoplasm
ice as obsidian gunman
the spring as Andy Warhol
dragged to a Monster Truck rally

to frankly heed we shall all loose our souls by summer
to thaw without chilly innards as to burst like a savage skyward and then collect the dizzy foil of your own debris to trade of cash

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2014
Edited: Saturday, January 04, 2014

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

written snowbound (storm allegedly named *Hercules* 1/3/14)

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