Sunday, August 30, 2015

To My Future Goat Farm in Alabama

(Goat) Howl

(with thanks and apologies to Allen Ginsberg)
   
I saw the best goats of my generation destroyed by farmers,
    bleating hysterical pronking,
dragging themselves through fields at dawn looking
    for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters following behind them, an ancient heavenly
    connection to the espresso machines on sleepy Sunday urban streets,
who scruffy and stubborn and hungry and high sat up chewing
    in the supernatural darkness of Alabama valleys, floating
    across the tops of barns contemplating Patsy Cline,
who bared their tiny horns to Heaven under the electric fence and saw
   antebellum angels staggering on ramshackle roofs illuminated,
who passed through fairgrounds with radiant cool eyes
    hallucinating Georgia and Faulkner-tragedy among the
    scholars of agriculture,
who were expelled from the dairies for crazy & ramming
    each other on the hard bones of the skull,
who gathered under shade trees, near water troughs, under the bad Alabama sun
   burning their hay in oil barrels and listening to the Terror from the pig barn.

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