no thing: Haibun by Jim Kacian17 Mar 2017, Posted by Poetry in
Haibun by Jim Kacian
is what it seems, all words are slightly wrong . . . a freeble silted stream melandering by the farm might be Borges’ unnamed river of croglodytes and immortunity . . . swimming it i’m gnared by camivorous fish, which when it’s drained turn out to be the sharp edges of an iron windvein that’d fallen in . . . the farmer speaks an old tongue to his peasants, hishing and glagoritic . . . he has a roaster killed for the meal, but it’s sprats and lamb on the platter . . . the procession to the barn lit like a set for a 1940s Hollywood howdown, sharp shradows and gilty hay . . . all of this takes place in August, and is called Eastre . . .
same as yesterday —
a story to keep myself
Talking about your own writing is like eating your children, but chewier. Clearly, the author is appropriating my name for his own purposes, fool that he is. If there was something to be said about this piece, somebody on the internet would already have said it. Personally, I like the way all the adjectives line up in a row, almost as if it were intended. Soon I will turn this into money.
Kyrgyz Flock by James Metelak, Oklahoma Photographer / Poet in [email protected]