By J.J. Tindall
Whey Lion in a Glade
I keep seeing this thing.
A lion in apparent repose
in the gold dusk
leering with rage.
A lion surveying a bay
from a dune,
vast armadas of white clouds
glide above
along the inverted glittering gulf.
Lion, color of whey, in the bluff
commands the skyline
across the bay:
silent jazz.
Labyrinths, Ziggurats,
Minarets and Mosques.
The shadowplay of antique gods.
Trolls, tigers and texts,
tanks, tankers and jets
amidst the minarets.
City: a singular expression of consciousness.
Leering lion squints into the
windswept sunset, weary.
Keeps seeing this thing.
Trying to endure
the whirlwind nightmare.
Finally, hopefully in repose,
he sees another white fuckwad
with a camera
and a gun, probably, too,
squirming openly
in the nearby underbrush.
Like the reliquary of a few dead ideas,
fucking bleeding-heart auteur
with a sound crew,
an entourage of secrets
and spies and
a bodyguard of fevers and flies.
I keep seeing this thing.
Tears, tigers and texts beneath the minarets,
a whey lion places his bets.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on September 21, 2012