by Edward Mycue

about the author: Edward Mycue's poetry was sometimes accused of difficulty and erudition. I have difficulty with poetry that tries to be brainy by sounding brainy. If Mycue's poetry sounds brainy, which is not my description, it's because it is, not vice versa. As if Mycue could be classified anyway. -gcb


A Short Message For A Long Life

After it is ripe, time is banished.Root
did not eat down. Nuclear swords, dialectic
knots hang over candidates for Alexander's
shoes, stare-into futures for accidents from
yesterday's tapestry. Rot eats down, seasons
scatter. And we read in them, fraying. Black
mirrors, white minutes manure to loam. Meat
is absurd. "Of" is "from's" motive; "what"
is "why's" dance. Ideas, nuclear ripe, coral
mouthed, are blind windows. Now sit in judgment
on the past and out of that dark doorway, remember
now is not elsewhere, we are not 'there' and
do not know an elsewhere. Now, 'here' is. Other
: there where we are not. I do not know other
than this. Other than this is not now. Now
the sky begins to split open. Now sit, judge.