Jody's Notes
It's odd. I wrote this poem in the early 1980s, maybe even in the late 1970s. Its shortcomings don't strike me as craft-related, but as the betrayal on paper of a certain emotional immaturity. But that's an illusion, that sort of impression is always an illusion. For two reasons: First, because craft can make even the appearance of emotional immaturity work artistically. And, as I mentioned, for a second reason too.
This poem was republished in my collection, The Lust for Blueprints, both editions.
Sometimes,
the sky looks like the inside of a skull;
its clouds the puffy white brains
of a retarded God.
On such days, I think skyscrapers
are acupuncture needles:
too weak a cure for too grave an illness.
Other times, its clouds look like white frilly silks
against the blue thigh of a vain God
too silly to think of us.
Some days, clouds resemble the white mist
a small boy-God blows over his blue hands
on a cold day: the sun
reminds me of a small fire barely enough
to warm him after a romp
through the empty cosmos.
But there are those days, like today,
when clouds look like the discarded napkins
of a vampire-God gorging himself
on the day’s dead.
The sunset is especially beautiful.
© 1986 Jody Azzouni