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November 24, 2017 | Poetry

Three Poems

Michael B. Tager

Three Poems photo

Fall, Little Ducklings 

      after Lil’ Bow Wow -  "Bounce With Me"

The ducklings, they’re falling
from their hidden, rough-grown home
within the jungle tree
What is in the depths?
Piles of egg shells, duck shit,
tweety love for brother-and-sister ducks.

But the ducklings, they jump
hesitation gone like rotary phones
and everyone’s innocence
Their downy feathers ruffle
the still breeze
not the other way around.
Wind can’t fuck with ducklings.

Me, I’m behind the camera
behind the guy, behind the guy
and I watch the ducklings
tumble to the leafy ground
One day, there will be no forest left
if we continue down this concrete highway

But for now, I watch the duckling bounce
bounce, bounce with me
Attenborough style
Bounce with me bounce with me
Bounce with me bounce with me

 

I Don’t Care If You're Six, Seven Feet, A Mile High, I’m David Attenborough

     after Bushwick Bill - "Mind Playing Tricks On Me"

I stand, on Halloween,
beneath a craggy masterpiece
looming through the clouds,
a soft nimbus of rain round its peak.

I am dwarfed.

The crane, a distant eye mystery,
buffeted by warm wind.
It is so small, dwarfed itself,
a Halloween mockery.

The crane, it knows theft.
It knows terror
I do too. I remember last year,
Halloween fell on a weekend.
Robbing little kids for bags.
Robbing the night of heaven.

I am reminded of this mountain.
The snow topped corridor 
where only goats and lichen dwell
and God, and Gaea
they stand above the mountain
above oxygen-starved stone crevices
that defy me.

I am David Attenborough.
I fear no mountain.
I fear no crane.
I fear no plastic bag.

I approach the mountain and drop those motherfucking Bs on em.
The more I swung
the more blood flew

But then it disappeared and my boys disappeared too.
It wasn’t even close to Halloween.
And I, David Attenborough,
am so tired

of the crumbling peaks.

 

Within the Humble Earth Stand I, David Attenborough, Vampire Lord

      after Missy Elliott - "The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)"

Deep dankness hides
shadowy spelunking treasure;
concealed from naked eye
lie glistening diamond troves.

Stalactites drip drip drip.
I can’t stand the rain
I’m a supa dupa fly.

Accumulation of molochian deths
touches my shoulder.
I scream.
David Attenborough doesn’t do the deep.

Startled, come the squeaking hordes of Zarathustra;
of the Impaler;
of Cthulu.
Guano-infested denizens of dark dungeons
they twirl around me, an inky halo.
Nip nip nip!
They draw blood
and strength courses
even as I crumble to my knees.

Camera-man and boom operator scream death throes:
death of a thousand bat cuts.
And I sleep
when the rain hits my windowed soul.
I take and inhale, cough me some endo.
Sway on dosie-do like you loco,
my devil power surges
and I crave the night unspoilt
fangs' growth uninhibited
by earth’s crust above me, below me.

Blood, I will drink.
When I tred upon dewy grasses again,
curled in my toes
I will find casual weekend warriors
and I will knock on the windows of their vehicles.
Beep beep, who got the keys to the jeep?

Vroom.

 

image: Aaron Burch


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