January 22, 2007 : Cranial Occlusions




The sun has failed to appear
Today as have words. There’s an Indian,
Red American, not Asian, who believes
The written word to be the death
Of the spirit of language. I was
Reading of him--only way
I would have any knowledge of him--
While sitting in the red chair
In the corner of the orange (sunset)
Room, though much of the house
Is a sect of orange. Above me
A hole, ragged and irregular, has formed
In the ceiling scratched from above
Where nests a gray squirrel that entered
From the shed roof of the added room. Earlier
I climbed a ladder and sprayed
Red fox urine into the nest
Hoping to put the fear of place
Into the soul of the rodent(s)
And for it to repent and leave, implying in a sense,
The food chain: red fox eats gray
Squirrel. I believe
The Indian.