Monday, September 16, 2019

Erik-John Fuhrer, From A try ing


Er_si_g B_ck_tt, image by Daniel Y. Harris 





From      A           try         ing

an erasure of the first act of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot  




a poet
                                                        rags
         obvious



         swelling





                                                                              C r U c I f I e D







                                            a thief
 

                                     s p e a k s      of
                                              return







hell
           death




                    the four




                              b e l i e v e







                                   ignorant apes
                                          l i m p i n g
                                                  with
                                                       extreme
         d i s t a n c e






                                willow
                           leaves




                                  bush




the wrong place






mistaken

                        that tree
                           bog




               made


         r u b b i s h



                a
                          landscape










mound                   s                            o
               f                        time
                                                    halt




          sleep









                                    private nightmares  






                      calm




                        a       d r u n k






                 pugilist







angry
                                 silence





garlic
     s
                         the tree



                h
                a
                n
                g
                i
                n
                g





                             shriek





                                   dark




                            light





                f r e e z e s







                  pray
     vague
             ly




                       promise








silenc


                           on      hands and knees







silence

                  s
                  a
                  g
                  g
                  i
                  n
                  g

                      at the knees




                        loses





                   the arm


           of
                     fright








the wind
                            shouts




            hungry






                                 a carrot

                                           t u r n i p s





                                  a question






so much


       forgotten 





                                  not     t i e d




                 the opposite





                       muck
                         r e f l e c t i o n     is
                  temperament







             W r I g G l  I n G


                             the remains of

a terrible cry








    





shoulders       c r i n g e




                  round


           a whip




  lucky
                     with the sight of
                             rope



                f i d d l i n g      with


                                 assistance






a d v a n c e    t h r e a t e n i n g l y





                    human beings


      of          glass            the same species
                                                           of
                                                     god






r e c o i l i n g
                             dusk







         jerks            up
                              sleep








  lucky
                  the                      mouth
                            puts


                                                         d
                                                         o
                                                         w
                                                         n



                               the              evening
            b u t t o n i n g








 the whip from     mouth



           l o n g      with
              glass






        bones                 s u c k e d
   s l o w l y                                     the
ground
                              r h y t h m     of
               feet


—Erik-John Fuhrer


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