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American Ious

By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime

I owe you a poem as huge and epic as the Grand Canyon,
as warm and textured as the ancient, fissured, sun-baked rock,
soft with the sweet, salty dust of millennial erosion;
a poem that soars high as the desert crows as they ride thermals in that painfully blue Arizona sky
and cackle their caustic complaints about all the damn tourists.

I owe you a poem that will make you see more stars
than Griffith Observatory and Hollywood combined can offer.

I owe you a poem that sings to you
in the dirty, gasoline-throated voice of duelling V8 engines
racing the ghost of Route 66.

I owe you a poem that lights up likeVegas at night,
with Stratospheric perspective and the kind of vision that can see
all the way to the improbable, hazed-out Rocky horizon.

I owe you a poem imbued with the same perfectly balanced irony
as cruising the strip in a stretch limo,
drinking Champagne and declaring Death to the West.

I owe you a poem written in arcane symbols;
a poem that can vanish elephants, pull rabbits from hats and raise the dead;
a poem that crackles with magic
- real magic -
and smells of jasmine.

I owe you a poem so enormous and elaborately engineered
that four hundred workmen die in the making of it,
and its words generate more power
than all those hydroelectric turbines put together.

I owe you a poem, the force of which can only be measured in megatons;
a poem that makes the Nevada bedrock quake,
blasts island chains into underwater craters, and might
ignite the upper atmosphere,
if anyone was ever so reckless as to read it aloud.

I owe you a poem like that, and one day,
perhaps I'll even get good enough to write it,
but this isn't it.
This is a different kind of poem entirely,
about one of those moments that would never make it into a movie:
one of those quiet moments when
I'm lying beside you and everything goes still, inside and out,
with ourhouse settled safe and restful around us, a cat or two
purring on the bed, the sound of
light rain on the window, the smell of it
breathing into the room, and your heartbeat
or maybe mine
calling the rhythm of this calm, easy piece
of forever.
This is a poem about where we live
and when and how
and - more than a little -
about why.
And it's for you.
Which is not to say that I don't owe you another one.

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Poet 11586

American Ious