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By Willie James King Prussian blue is pretty but I don't want to read about it in another poem; I am fed-up with fuchsia too, as well as aquamarine, anything thought exotic, pristine. Give me a drinking gourd mottled from too many mouths, 'possum turds packed with persimmon seeds upon a path; or, buzzards circling above a fetid carcass they are eager to glean from the earth's ephemeral hold. I want things that are useful, dutiful, even sweetened by death; a young capon fattened for company whose name I don't have to know. I want the kind of poem that takes me someplace, a place I never knew I needed to go. |
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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006