Editor’s note: Aeqai welcomes Maxwell Redder to its stable of writers and critics.  Redder, a recent DAAP graduate, is an outstanding poet, and since art and poetry often intertwine, we are introducing Maxwell’s Poetry Corner as a regular aeqai feature.  For awhile, all the poems will be Redder’s.

 

The Sound

 

 

The sound plops under

fat Kentucky children dripping

ice cream through the cracks

of cement.  It buzzes orange

according to Kandinsky, flutters

from blue to green, slithers deep

creamy brown; the kind found

in paddlefish eggs

which, when chewed as caviar,

turn the sound into vicious

pinks and neons; the kind found

in starbursts.

 

The sound crinkles under

a man’s toupee as he kicks

a plastic bag which, sticking

to his shoe, is empty minus

static.  Watching

from my window, I saw him

become disappointed, saw

the sound whip and he was gone—

he past the corner and behind me

the sound shuttered and I,

too afraid to turn it down,

shuttered willingly.

 

The sound burrows under

questioning.  It burrows under

pillows like a head when jackhammers

begin crushing too early, just outside.

Questions about the sound travel

like graffitied boxcars; destination

to destination, constantly switching

the bodies that pull them.

Buried under roots covered by decaying

autumn leaves, browned at the tips,

the sound becomes excited, finally

folding under.

 

Hot Air

 

 

A ball is in the sky.  I’m upside-down.

The ball is medium-sized.  I may never

know what color it is.

 

My hands and fingers rub the grass.

I pick one blade, compare it

to the ball; no comparison.

 

Fourteen berries are on a plastic plate;

I counted, and counted at least one

ant stuck in their juice.

 

Far away, above, someone yelled.  I couldn’t

make out their words.  Their emphasis

sounds excited.

 

The ball in the sky moved slightly.

I think it’s hissing at me.  I thought

I’d hiss back.

 

Skylight

 

 

I’m not nighttime, or color.

I’m not photograph, especially

on wall.  I photographed walls

of cracked paint then left

photography.  I painted a wall;

it read: “do something positive!”

Thought it was good vandalism.

I’m not the cat strolling rooftops.

I’m not the green flickering lamp.

I’m not on heroin or roller skates.

I’m not myself a poem; according

to some artists, though, I am.

I’m not a car, especially a Honda.

I’m not the last cap on the rack.

I’m not wine, red or white.

Don’t know what I am, really.

I know I’m stardust that once

exploded—

lit up darkness with colors.