Jamie Cavanagh
Cavanagh states: "Permit me to forgo sending a bio, please. I never know what to write that doesn't smack of self-aggrandizement. I cover this failure with the trite-sounding profession that the poetry is all that matters."
goodness to the market borne and the stone-buckled streets turn to walls turn to veins turn to macadam hiways bisecting the thinning turn to dirt dusty branches splayed through the farmlands where calves are calved and foals are foaled and green wheat golden turns tit high in a giant sun and the dirt dusty branches turn to macadam hiways turn to clogged arteries through a calcified land turn to funnels of neon turn to barbed walls occluding turn to stone-buckled streets lined with faux feeding shops where the golden wheat goodness lies raped of all meaning exhausted with weeping puffed to importance stale as the air in an unopened tomb. the constant risk the dog envelops a bone. secluded world with curtains drawn: paws, drool and bone. she looks up with such glad eyes, knowing she's got her bone. not understanding why but knowing. dog becomes the bone. true zen master practice. moments cease low agony. bone becomes the dog. she looks up with such sorrowful eyes, unsure always, so dependent. she knows the risk of abandonment. such depth from the edge of the precipice so much like love. |