Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Till They Are Incandescent

Busy busy. I'm supposed to be grading a bunch of ethnographies and writing a paper of my own and working on a presentation about some dude's article on Zora Neale Hurston's views on national socialism. But I'd rather not. So I talked on the phone to Deanna for like and hour and half and now I want to fall asleep next to my baby. First, though, I'd like to share some Jean Toomer with the internet. I typically hate poetry, but this sort of secular urban love poem appealed to me in class today:

Her Lips Are Copper Wire

whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes

telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate

(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
---
a girl in my class said that the dude basically gets electrocuted from making out with a naughty city girl. but i prefer to think otherwise.

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