Saturday, November 15, 2014
Three Poems by Cory Adamson
Legacy by Corruption
-- The old wretch died
The Friends no one ever saw him with
sob and mourn his loss. Everyone
wears black cloth that crumples and scratches
from the starch.
You don't get it.
So you read his biography
see the movie they made
and you nod every time someone mentions his name.
Then you get addicted to his work.
Flying Kicks and colors explode
in the third eye. The Greek lady
dictates disguised memoir into
your ear. You can smell the fruit and coins of her perfume.
You would walk on fire for her, but she only needs a meal ticket and a photo op.
One morning you wake up,
look into the streaky mirror and ask:
Did people mourn the dragon
St. George killed?
The dragon, your dragon, he
pillaged, killed and corrupted
those who found his cave. His
legacy tempts the angels.
By now everyone has forgotten
the man and you remember
the dragon. You remember
from the curse he put on you.
The curse you made him put on you.
You get up from beside the Greek Lady on
Monday morning, clean your
meat tearers and slither down the street
to the Inconvenience that pays the bills.
Sweet, sweet woman who asks for the world
and fly fishes for wallets. Two weeks in and
you fight to keep your claws sheathed. Never
trust a goddess who walks the earth.
Some cow eyed half-child sits next
to you with a dog eared
mask made from the dead
man's number one book.
They sigh and wish to meet him.
You laugh. You laugh a scalding,
white hot laugh right in their face
and slither on down to the
Inconvenience feeling smug.
Dragons like to be left alone.
A Reminiscence of Scum and Muck
I speak of all things that creep and crawl
and all things on legs:
We kneel before the Master with grace
and the Whip Cracker with hate.
Worm away if you can.
Skitter, scuttle, and crawl
if you are more blessed.
No reprieve for us on legs.
To scum and muck we march.
For scum and muck
is home to all things harsh.
The scaly giants float in the marsh
waiting for weaker prey.
Pray to God for no scum and muck.
No way out now.
You better jump like Geronimo, Jack,
or you'll be made into a man of mud.
Mud made beautiful is still mud
and is only dirt when dry, and only the shape is changed.
For living things, metamorphosis
is the enlightened way.
Out, Dang it, out!
You sit there with a Mirado Black Warrior
hovering above paper.
A letter scratches out, then
another without trying,
a monk's art of zen.
The climaxing crescendo
raising up against the summer moon . . .
Here it comes!
Of course it vanished up Houdini's sleeve.
And then you scribble
for the heck of it.
Tear that piece of trash
a new one.
Of course you say
you're done for good.
Of course you'd lie
Cory Adamson is a student in Lincoln University studying English with minors in history and philosophy.