Collaboration

Here's a project I've been working on with a bunch of wacky poets. I'm the only one not in the pomo/post-avant po school. But I do a good mushfake.

Caller: Why can I only do Woody Allen impressions at parties?

Oracle: Because you are wingless. Your yellowish brown head and thoracic shield shake like aspen leaves before a storm, but aspen have no fear, their identities erased, rooted, identical. The loess around you will lift, leave waves that match clouds and the ridges along the roofline of your very own mouth.

Caller: Tell me of the children who will carry my dreams and my despair in the illusions of time and genetics.

Oracle: This stead is your stand. Take the sky around you, walk it through the grounded gold leaves and cooling grey skins of trees. Mist will rise from the aluminum cowls of dryer vents. Stand in the perfumed steam. A name will come to you from the house of dust and weeping joists.

Caller: No, but really. The kids.

Oracle: You are obsessed with self and the fragments of self you have left behind as food. Abandoned farmsteads blister across the bunch grass, bluestem and brome.