Friday, May 29, 2015

Vernon Mooers writes

                                           Wild Dogs

                                     In the night they come
                                    and fight outside
                                    the pack ganging up on one
                                    and in the UAE
                                    one boy is attacked, hurt and
                                    seventy goats and sheep destroyed.
                                    I think of the shiatsu puppy
                                    and what the feral dogs make so different.
                                    I remember Leepunee
                                    the best companion
                                    a lion dog
                                    with a sense of humour  and
                                    even Junior the dog in Africa
                                    half human

1 comment:

  1. Vernon always writes in the quick stream-of-consciousness manner of Frank O'Hara. There's very little evidence of reworking/revising. It's an automatic process of creation, much like the way the Beats claimed it should be done.
    As a point of reference, here's an O'Hara poem, a bit longer than was usual for him:


    It's my lunch hour, so I go
    for a walk among the hum-colored
    cabs. First, down the sidewalk
    where laborers feed their dirty
    glistening torsos sandwiches
    and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
    on. They protect them from falling
    bricks, I guess. Then onto the
    avenue where skirts are flipping
    above heels and blow up over
    grates. The sun is hot, but the
    cabs stir up the air. I look
    at bargains in wristwatches. There
    are cats playing in sawdust.
    to Times Square, where the sign
    blows smoke over my head, and higher
    the waterfall pours lightly. A
    Negro stands in a doorway with a
    toothpick, languorously agitating.
    A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
    smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
    suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
    a Thursday.
    Neon in daylight is a
    great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
    write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
    I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S
    CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of
    Federico Fellini, è bell' attrice.
    And chocolate malted. A lady in
    foxes on such a day puts her poodle
    in a cab.
    There are several Puerto
    Ricans on the avenue today, which
    makes it beautiful and warm. First
    Bunny died, then John Latouche,
    then Jackson Pollock. But is the
    earth as full as life was full, of them?
    And one has eaten and one walks,
    past the magazines with nudes
    and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
    the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,
    which they'll soon tear down. I
    used to think they had the Armory
    Show there.
    A glass of papaya juice
    and back to work. My heart is in my
    pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.


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