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Monday, April 06, 2009

Happy Hour


They say the rock faces of Tai Bai Mountain
are stained from black ink Li Bai threw away in rage.

Now Bob writes of Mallarme’s first drafts
as a squid squirts black ink in his boat -
‘the darkest hour is right before the dawn’.

Questions of meaning and faith are two squirts
of brain ink drying on the swings
of a disused playground.

Soaring bop from Bird plays behind
bottles of Quink lined up like a cocktail bar
waiting for Happy Hour.

These words do an awkward dance -
I’m thinking this one out
on a laptop where the screen’s image
burns in autumn sunlight.

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