oh rising throat / ben gulyas

oh rising throat
of the rip song…
the bolting back and walloring thrust
of three and twenty-four Willies…
the whip-of-the wills
forever impulsing
the tone of the sun and the dark—

thread-bare sugar-caned Willie…
the land laid ground
of heel and knee,
one toe and no teeth,
yet still inhaling horizons…
gummin pie dough
like Shangri-La’s golden butter…
the sunlight across the tongue
the warmth in the blind belly…
and they say they don’t churn that stuff here no more…
but down on Toe Mud there’s a door to the world…
there’s a door to the world
they don’t even know…

yeah, the gunnerees, they miss the old west,
but he’s goin in deepsouth to the heart,
promises to keep…
his turtle eyes,
the bubbles rising
from his dreams…
his chest
gone in the flow
straight to the sea…
under late afternoon rib clouds
goes corner throat crossing Willie…

he lost his footing,
but kept his tongue
for breath and motion…

and he never
came back—

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