Friday, December 31, 2010

Digging Britney Redux

If I deleted every word I’ve written
about Britney the revision would create
a hole, a polar opening leading straight
down aesthetic space an airship could fit in—

a dirigible, pterodactyl-bitten
above jungles where volcanoes percolate,
impossible beasts in shadows salivate
and men and women quest by the wild smitten.

When all my words about Britney disappear
a woman remains—stripped because of the heat,
curious, looking up to see what’s coming,

on guard, crouching with her cat and with a spear.
Above, there’s sound, like a song, musique concrète—
That sound is dirigible engines humming.

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