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About this poet

Abraham Smith is the author of Hank (Action Books, 2010) and Only Jesus Could Icefish in Summer (Action Books, 2014). He teaches at University of Alabama and lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and Ladysmith, Wisconsin.

for yam sir: elevated blues

Abraham Smith
This poem is from a longer work, written in dedication to Abraham Smith's canine companion, Rodney.

probably the heat in the bama walMART parkin lot 
curls the edges of the masking taped penciled on 
a half crapped crate baby RODNEY stretchy snow legs 
and sweet potato continent blotches down 
his back LOST aka abandoned 
as the hoarder's drawers of one rub off 'em 
or three hotel motel soaps quiet lost sweeeeet  
consonance that he was what i am saying 
abused 	a u e less	not sure if the colorless dust 
of town on a town BOOT or iff red clay heavy cough 
on the wheel wells of a grrr TRUCK man 
fat he does not love maybe asleep 
when he goes WahOOF it's a buffet style he's 
in the aisles snake-biting every gristle yawner high on Dew
very un-berry slapper of the back of a kid's head i know at WALfart  
he would drop every awful eater of a kid's toy dream if he COULD 
nice though this snow grandma
she's old but she does not complain 
in her head she's young she's agreed 
to blow up the birthday balloons in this pic 
rodney is balloon being lung prized  
by new old grandma snow who has seen it all but has grace not class lives 
days in a day ooh surprised and weeeeeeeee 
WE agree he's cloud weave with winter brush brown 
with that sense of sweet rush and sweet sleep  
happy yes dropping pumpkins on the seine maybe 
any river nothing ever HURT or broken again 
YAM is irked by hawks so vanilla tapioca plus yam equals HAWKS no no? 
like little spat wrecked broke ladders up there on sky 
he does that liberator quIxote  
of that hawk squid on high 	angel net sounder?
protector of the fair soft prawn field mouse  
or say purgatory worrier warrior I just know THEY never 
not even into the punky pines skate or sink 
when HE is bounding 
hey he's ablution quencher he's piggy WALmm biterrr
mr presh mr ipod rod mr rodeo 
mr yam man mr roodle strudel mr dip 
thee in the pond and try and drink 
while you swim 	cack cack 	hey he's 
coughing he got a little pond in 
his lung he's fine yam yond spondee lap sun 
yeep yeep and woof woo whoa uhoh buzzard you too 
best go tilt tilt over some other open country 
and CAME 	THE 	tornado like a thumbprint 
of a nobody dream of weird wolf water 
water left laying in a U of a pipe how it'll 
weird fast with fasted black grey 	and CAME The tornado 
bad water thumbprint checking the melon's coats 
to this revolving numberless anti-perfume keen 
windows bursted SEEDS of glass if you went to planting pane crap  
how many lost pet grow out of that fire ant dirt
how many wind thrown collars jingle 
in the pines like the bone in bum coin  
he's a bathtub fellar in thunder he's a nervous 
mervis in a storm he's an under bed hider 
he's learning today to gradual 
gradually graduate back out light from under bed 
tho every dog does need a den
some close space to do the deepest dreaming in 
maybe his grandpapa was a hammock full of the farthest thing from schemes  
maybe the cloudy brushy two he lunged from 
wore a bed shape maybe the beds up there in high light 
never did squeak maybe if they did peep spring cry out it was the peat 
of a pert chipmunk hiving in a dust hole 
or a bluecoat angel squirrel roD will adjust 
your back for you tugging the leash 
in shocked joy atonal squeal astonish   
as the newness of a smaller runner brings him back 
to wonderful 		here's a happy  	to run 
towards not away	is to smile 
of brush and of snow here's round blotty pine 
he's turned his cinnamon back on 
so you know don't we? on
every sappy sticky limb 
sinks a hawk 
mouse beak unmoused 
and i quote 	damn yam cop grrr the hawk collective  
leaving a little purple grr burp out into the light
the walmarts turn toadstools toads are dining on 
with a lobster bib eructated of toadstools 
oho they are eating themselves  
oho the sky for once uncast in wing  
love you Roodle let's go tin-
tern that abbey walk it 
reel 	rite 	ripe 	rise   rolling 	'gain


Abraham Smith's dog, Rodney
Abraham Smith's dog, Rodney

Copyright © 2011 by Abraham Smith. Poem and image used by permission of the author.

Copyright © 2011 by Abraham Smith. Poem and image used by permission of the author.

Abraham Smith

Abraham Smith is the author of Hank (Action Books, 2010) and Only Jesus Could Icefish in Summer (Action Books, 2014). He teaches at University of Alabama and lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and Ladysmith, Wisconsin.

by this poet

poem
secret soil coital
the dove there
sounds blonde as
whipped oil
please appeal to
wimpling skies
journeying trees
there is but one fence
bone true and 
one blockhead dog
inside
to rend
the smarts
of trees
at journey's end
poem

in his wide wide palm the reigns loose as a foundering
pulse the sky gone
the color of the dying too
and the night kneels
on the throat of the morning
the turkey is clocking and
the night is a preservationist
the morning is a revisionist and
the child is erasing her skin

poem
runt crouched in
the dark part of the culvert
every sugar road
half a bag shy
of the flour roads
every here we go crow
spoiled at the touch
of gun holes in signs
love is inside
light wet seeds
nailed into
the crawlspace
between eyetooth
and barred goon