Nick Moudry (Philadelphia, USA): "High noon"

I.
I never saw the bullet-
hole in Billy's skull.
I never saw Billy's body
stretched out along the desert.

I never heard the holy devil
music he spoke of this music
that hooks young people. I remember
how dark it was & how my whole body

wouldn't fit
behind the air compressor & I remember
his slurpee like a smear of moonlight on the cement.

II.
& the plastic dog on your book cover, Billy,
is burning & the cowboy on your book cover
is burning & his hat is burning & the woman
with the green shirt & the pink pants, she is
burning too, & the woman with the pink shirt
& the green pants is on fire & the book is on
fire & when I read it I'm on fire, & when I
touch it, my hands burn & your book is made
of pale, brown paper & the paper is on fire &
the shadow of your book is burning too.

III.
I cannot hear
that same music the burning
people hear. I do
hear the music you'd whistle
at night while we were stretched
out in the sand & I do hear the desert
& the water in the desert, although
everything you say is a mirage.

IV.
I know more about Billy from being dead
than Billy from being alive.
Billy the Kid is a mixture
& a jangle that rattles the nerves.
You say, death is permanent
& while I don't disagree, I must say
it has been domesticated.
Billy, in your hideout
I bump into a snake.
Billy, in your hideout
is the skin of the drum.
Billy, our hideout
is a dream of pain. May I say to you,
my friend, there is no such person here.

V.
Billy the Kid, you thought it
was over. Billy the Kid,
you thought after the gunfight
after I had written the poem
it was over. I am here
to tell you there is blood inside
the statue yet. Billy, the cross
is moving. Billy, the Priest stole
the train. I have been given
orders to shoot anything that moves.
It is
not over. This
language that encased you & encases me.

VI.
You are sprawled out
along the bottoms of all the rivers
& I can hardly wait
for the music to begin.
You are sprawled out along
the cement & the police are coming.
I have been given orders
to shoot anything that moves.
I don't know if I can save you.

VII.
I know you don't exist, yet continue
to ask, "Is there such a thing
as music & if so from where
does it come?" You told me
music comes from within,
but I am trying to sing
to keep myself calm.
I know you don't exist. I
ask you anyway.


Portions of this poem originally appeared in Cant, EM, and Fourteen Hills. It was published as a print chapbook by Indivia in 2005, reviewed on Stoning the Devil in 2007

Contributors

  • Adam Fieled
  • Powered by Blogger

    October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 July 2006 August 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 December 2009 July 2016 November 2016 January 2017 February 2017 June 2017 April 2020 May 2020 July 2020 September 2020 October 2020 February 2021 March 2021 June 2021 July 2021 December 2022 June 2023 August 2023 September 2023 October 2023 November 2023 December 2023 January 2024 February 2024 March 2024 April 2024 May 2024 June 2024 July 2024 September 2024 October 2024 November 2024 December 2024 January 2025 February 2025 March 2025 April 2025 May 2025 June 2025 July 2025