Sweet Star Chisel, Dearest Flaming Crumbs in Your Beard Lord,
John Rybicki
May my body last--last so I can sing apple blossoms blown out
of my open mouth and
raining their petals onto rag-top convertibles, and fields of wild asparagus;
raining their
petals onto milk barns and silos and blowing them wide open; petals melting
down onto
the tongues of men and women hanging their clock faces out every open window
along
Sixth Avenue; wild blossoms gusting into doorways and tumbling up staircases;
blossoms
whirlwinding around the bare ankles, whirlwinding around the heart of my beloved
and
climbing with her into bed; blossoms swirling into hospital rooms and churches,
spilling
their feathers onto the shimmering outlines of just gone people down on their
knees--those
feathery vowels, those blood drop men and women, locking their fingers around
the lowest
rung of those ladders we haul around like crosses mounted to our backs; ladders
jutting
their bones into the stars; sweet ladders we'll one day take off and climb,
pushing our faces
through the blue womb of this world, into that garden of stars bell knocking
on their
vines.
Tables of Content
Seventeen (Fall 2003)
Sixteen (Spring 2003)
Fifteen (Fall 2002) Fourteen (Spring 2002)
Thirteen
(Fall 2001) Twelve (Spring 2001)
Eleven (Fall 2000)
Ten (Spring 2000)
Nine (Fall 1999) Eight (Spring 1999)
Seven, (Fall 1998) Six, (Spring 1998)
Five (Fall 1997) Four (Winter/Spring 1997)
Three (Summer/Fall 1996) Two (Winter 1996)