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Icarus-like nearing the sun
contrail streak
falling
fa
ll
in
g
waxed wings
me
lt
in
g
wildly
in the grieving sky.
by Ed Higgins
chicken little considers the sky again
oh, sure i’m still running around like a heads-up/off/prophet/profit/fit trying to cut off my very own de/(con)instruction and all other sordid a•void•able & available/a-Babel towers of post &toastmodern doom/daze re(altho)guarding our economy in/ex/&/anterior terror of too sometimes•always all afright with me henish-looking like some diminutive Kali only i’m in a bantam suit looking all-a-fright in a head&heedless moreorless banshee keen/for/keening. shrill before the sky’s death knell noi•some or just can’t write-it-off darkest noir over•us•all! or to be exact, that is, of man/woman/chicken/child/everyone. really. so youbetcha any/old/witching/way this omen•amen•ahem of mine assures our sky will will will is falling tumbling twisting howling hellish as in all Kansas gone rumbling under black-cloud vengeance of truly veritas-verily.
ok, eerily also or/and get this: just-adjust-for black fright dust thrown/up in our frail•fray•feckless fey faces like dark death//aces-of-ominous. yup, inspades Dorothy’s frightmare of immense downer over/under/all-around. so these scaly-scrambling hen’s feet of mine scratching caw-clawings while carrying/crying/ cravening on in my fumble feeble way past every damned/doomed Mcdonalds, Jack-in-the-BoohooedBox, KFSeeeee those damn chicken killers! well, ok we all are box(ed) up/ended in disheveled feather-ruffled time for our very own apocalyptic downtheriver•plucked•soooofucked.
but as usual i’m running around here/everywhere rear/guarding this dumbstate of doom.
by Ed Higgins
Week’s Rain
the seasonal stream
dividing our near pasture
from the back field
where I make my best
late June hay has swollen
this January—its white
slashing teeth threaten
to take out the culvert bridge
already its rushing shoulders
massive as a running back’s
erode the banks, undercut
roots of wild cherry and plum,
whip blackberry vines
like witch’s hair in the flow
by Ed Higgins
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Outside
It’s one of those days
when the cold, fog-dented sky
won’t let you see even down
to the barn from the house.
On days like this
the silvered grey air
sticks in your lungs
like campfire marshmallows.
The cold of it slicks off
your fingernails. And the cows
in the barn loafing area
are hunched nearly into the letter C.
Only the Indian Runner ducks seem
to welcome this damp air.
Eating cracked corn & sunflower seeds
washed down by gulps of fog.
by Ed Higgins
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qarrtsiluni 