by lee r. rorman
Local here, the streets potholed and littered; franchised
trash biodegraded glum shuffled forward then moonwalking back
against auto tires resting and pinched by curbs brushed
with silt smoke butts and mud scars married and folded there.
Rusted pickup, fenders blistered, pitted trembling swallowed
in exhaust creepy crawls near this affirming the known and
agreed. Tavern open Ed and Al inside same tales told retold.
Anger and old grievances brought the Remington pulled from
the rack over the seat and carried in. Reports loud ringing
ears innocents floor grabbing trembling hands over ears. Too
much to process here with two dead locals. Why here where life
happens habitually consistently stoically expectantly?
Tomorrow a breeze pushes a gum wrapper unnoticed near a lamp
0 thoughts on “local”
alliteration, consonance, assonance, repeated sounds. I get so fascinated by the sound of this I lose the story. The first two words, “Local here” (like an announcement, absurdly redundant) breaks apart later in “too much to process here with two dead locals” – which I find interesting because the grammatical functions of each word reverse themselves. Which is probably irrelevant. But I wonder why a piece like this pulls me immediately into its structure, bypassing content/story almost entirely. Except, I do pick up on the story — after 3 reads. And then really like the imagery of the final line, appropriately distanced from the rest. I like it when a poem does this to me, but I don’t know if all these sound devices work only as embelishment or if they’re integral to the poem as a whole. I tend to think the latter case is true, because the descriptions entail a cluttered environment which is nicely reflected in the clutter of sound. And I like that too — a linkage between form and content. Nice.