Belle and Sebastian

I am disappointed in myself

to a high degree.

I've written nothing good

for a longish time now,

and I am not happy with that.

I have told myself

that I would write certain things

for weeks now.

And nothing has come of it.

A dadaist poem.

A little sonnet written about

ordinary things

in ordinary language.

Something of an ironic beat poem

if you will.

Nothing, nothing, nothing

that's been done well.

And not just in my writing.

But overall.

Nothing that's worth it.

But a small little idea

is growing steadily in my mind.

A colossal idea, truly.

A film.

A real one, a lengthy one.

With actors and lines.

A summer project.

Based on my (really, first and last) short story,

"Blackbird".

How I will do this

Is still being turned over and over.

But the idea has quickly sunken its roots

deep, deep into my brain.

I will make this film.

I must.

It is something I must do.

I suppose that's all.

I guess.

Have a second-rate poem.

Coal and Canaries

-

The hazed-over blue mountains

wore twisted peaks, invisible

in the coming rains.

The trains, criss-crossed the

feet of the godly things,

small and black insects,

belching smoke into the mouths

of the guardian giants.

-

Rusting in the spring storms,

the smokestacks cut the landscape,

painted a greying outline of the

overseers, the green trees

layered thick in the coal dust

that settled in the lungs of the towns

All up and down the lifeblood railroad.

The gleaming silver savior of the coal mine canaries.

-

And the majesties,

counting up the glowing flames

of capitalism, small stars in the darkened

lands.

Eastern US' dear bride, coal.

The grit of marriage settled deep in the bones

of the mountains, the folks

All clad in blackened overalls.

-

These tall green things

twisted down,

bent themselves up to cast shadows

of what was never here, to begin with.

Something green breathed deep in the

heaving lungs, deep jagged cuts of the

silky decomposition.

Never have the mountains breathed mossy

green air into cavernous lungs

full of the gold of this place.

-

The yellow canaries

lifted up,

to lie in the mist

of the once-green mountains.

The dull glint of coal dust

sticking to their lungs.