Monday, January 24, 2011

Denis Johnson Poem

The trees leaning into one another, green and horrible,
The sun setting at the end of the street,
The birds' voices of despair and lust,
Even a fool could tell you what this is all about,
How one person sits in his car and waits
And the air thickens and browns-- pollen and dust.
The world is sick of itself, sitting in its car
Watching all of this. All I do any more
In my poems is show off, now that I've started
Acting like someone hot and recognizable,
Selling big diamonds to the flattered Earth,
And I don't know who's talking-- am I talking?--
Can it be me?-- fat, ugly-hearted,
Saying, What am I saying, what am I worth?

-from Ploughshares: Winter 10/11