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Letter to Auguries, Dated October 9th 1983
Don’t think for one goddamn second
that I don’t
know screeching when I hear it &
understand
what crows mean.
Yes, I drive a Plymouth Satellite
& yes
I communicate
directly with the stars. Your
galaxy has no
grasp of magic. Your science
is
mistranslated from the waltz. No,
I take no
pride in your illiteracy. I have had my fill
of gasoline
casserole. You should focus
on syllables rather than the
pronunciation
of prophecies.
In answer to your queries—I am not
part of your
fan club. Too much of my time
belongs to Charlton Heston’s shrine.
I am pleased
to hear about your sister’s marriage
to bluebirds.
I hope she finds the worms
for her children. I will not discuss
Heaven with
you. You are not part of congress
& have no
purchase there. Suffice to say,
it is better than Hell. In closing,
take heart
& I will see you soon in the Odyssey,
next to my
steering wheel.
Dream with Horses and the Rat Pack
I imagine Dean
hitching together his team of horses, all martini
drenched &
riddle smoky. He makes a poor wrangler—a drunken swagger
only scares
the rear ponies. Frank outlives us all, churning glue
into gelatin;
the cat food companies acknowledge his status as patron
saint. Road
agents pose no threat, not with Sammy twisting his six-shooters. Only the
cattle know the guns are just for show. But poor Peter, all he wants to do is
bake the best
peach cobbler
& cheat on his wife. Too bad the chuck wagons are full of sausage. Who
the fuck is
Joey Bishop? The horses all wonder in unison.
Idiot
Creek, Oregon
My heart
finishes its last syllable & o! I arch
my back &
howl this song for Trout Street.
My motorcycle
articulates broken Spanish.
I’ve got a
clubfoot—I’m going to heaven
whenever the
hell I want. I’ve got enough
alcohol to get
drunk for a year.
There are no
mistranslations in rainwater.
C. McAllister Williams lives in Michigan & collects typewriters. His work is a fugitive-at-large. |
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