Thank you, Carly, for reminding me about The Monkey Museum where anyone (like, say, Bob Dylan) can become a monkey. Once my wife and I have kids we are SO getting one of these done.
I wanted to see if you have ever read any Amy Gerstler. She's my favorite poet. If my books weren't packed right now (we were going to move to Royal Oak, but now we're not - long story), I'd put my favorite two or three here. Here is a good one though:
Hymn to the Neck by Amy Gerstler
Tamed by starched collars or looped by the noose,
all hail the stem that holds up the frail cranial buttercup.
The neck throbs with dread of the guillotine's kiss, while
the silly, bracelet-craving wrists chafe in their handcuffs.
Your one and only neck, home to glottis, tonsils,
and many other highly specialized pieces of meat,
is covered with stubble. Three mornings ago, undeserving
sinner though she is, yours truly got to watch you shave
in the bath. Sap matted your chest hair. A clouded
hand mirror reflected a piece of your cheek. Vapor
rose all around like spirit-infested mist in some fabled
rainforest. The throat is the road. Speech is its pilgrim.
Something pulses visibly in your neck as the words
Monkey love!!! Woot!
ReplyDeleteI wanted to see if you have ever read any Amy Gerstler. She's my favorite poet. If my books weren't packed right now (we were going to move to Royal Oak, but now we're not - long story), I'd put my favorite two or three here. Here is a good one though:
Hymn to the Neck
by Amy Gerstler
Tamed by starched collars or looped by the noose,
all hail the stem that holds up the frail cranial buttercup.
The neck throbs with dread of the guillotine's kiss, while
the silly, bracelet-craving wrists chafe in their handcuffs.
Your one and only neck, home to glottis, tonsils,
and many other highly specialized pieces of meat,
is covered with stubble. Three mornings ago, undeserving
sinner though she is, yours truly got to watch you shave
in the bath. Sap matted your chest hair. A clouded
hand mirror reflected a piece of your cheek. Vapor
rose all around like spirit-infested mist in some fabled
rainforest. The throat is the road. Speech is its pilgrim.
Something pulses visibly in your neck as the words
hand me a towel flower from your mouth.
Hugs, Claire
Claire, This is awesome. Thanks. I will check more of her stuff out.
ReplyDeleteD'Anne