Calisthenic 1, Week 7

Original:

Kevin Young

Ode to Boudin

You are the chewing gum
of God. You are the reason
I know that skin
is only that, holds
more than it meets.
The heart of you is something
I don’t quite get
but don’t want to. Even
a fool like me can see
your broken
beauty, the way
out in this world where most
things disappear, driven
into ground, you are ground
already, & like rice
you rise. Drunken deacon,
sausage’s half-brother,
jambalaya’s baby mama,
you bring me back
to the beginning, to where things live
again. Homemade saviour,
you fed me the day
my father sat under flowers
white as the gloves of pallbearers
tossed on his bier.
Soon, hands will lower him
into ground richer
than even you.
For now, root of all
remembrance, your thick chain
sets me spinning, thinking
of how, like the small,
perfect, possible, silent soul
you spill out
like music, my daddy
dead, or grief,
or both—afterward his sisters
my aunts dancing
in the yard to a car radio
tuned to zydeco
beneath the pecan trees.

Step II:


 skin
is a leather sack for organs, yes,
a sagging sack, because flesh holds
more precious sentiments than it meets.
The heart of you, for instance, is something
I don’t quite get but don’t want to or else risk
sacrificing the mystery of that rhythm
you thump your hips to. Even
a fool like me can see your broken
beauty, like the swaying gait of your alien
sashay, each step a new path to mark the way
out in this world where most
things disappear, lost in places not here.
Perhaps they've been driven into ground. Not you though,
because we cannot lose you in the depths
because you are the ground already, & like rice, resilient
though they try to pull you over, you will rise.
Pay little testament to the drunken deacon,
who on Sunday mornings prefers to eat his eggs
with broiled cocktail weenies, sausage’s half-brother,
and if you add a little spice it could be jambalaya’s baby mama.
You are so capable you bring me back to the beginning.
You skip me along to where things, once lifelike, breathe and live
again. You are the homemade saviour, that made miracles with yarn,
and baked repentance in chocolate chip cookies.
I remember the day you fed me, it was the same day
my father sat resting, his eyes shut tight, under the wispy shade of flowers,
white as the gloves of pallbearers, before his momentos were tossed on his bier.
Soon after, hands will lower him into ground, moving mounds of soil richer
than even you. For now however, I'll treat you as the root of all
remembrance, as one brief glance at your thick chain
sets me spinning, thinking of how these efforts
because effortless, like the smallest idea or the most
perfect point, begun from a possible notion, and settling silent
structures in the soul until a flood moves in and you spill out
from the stereo speakers like pop music, my daddy hated.
That even while dead, or simmering in grief,
or perhaps he was both—either way, it was not until
afterward that his sisters, my aunts, were caught dancing
in the yard to a car radio tuned to zydeco,
hip hopping beneath the pecan trees.

Step III:

skin

is just a leather sack for organs, yes,

a sagging sack, because flesh holds

more precious sentiments than it meets.

The heart is something risk

sacrificing the mystery of that rhythm 

you thump your hips to. your broken

beauty, like the gait of aliens  a path to mark the way 

out in this world. driven into ground. the ground resilient

will rise to.

Pay testament to the drunk,

who on add a little spice to Sunday mornings 

once lifelike, breathe and moan like homemade saviours,
under the wispy shade richer

than the root of all a possible notion, that settles silent

structures in the soul until a flood moves in spills out

 like pop music, tuned to the pecan trees.

Step IV:

Skin is just a leather sack for organs, yes,

a sagging sack, that holds

more precious sentiments than feelings.

It throbs with movement, pulsing under

the thumping coughs of the heart, yes,

the heart is always at risk of

sacrificing the mystery of rhythm

to your broken beauty. Beauty

like the gait of aliens, becomes a path to mark the way 

out of this world. And beauty, under 

the hollowed crow of time expels all youth

until it is driven into ground, 

where new beauties rise in petaled shoots.

Until then, make the most of Saturday nights

so that the hangover may pay proper testament 

to the drunk shriveled up in church on Sunday.

His hips, once lifelike, breathe and moan like homemade saviors,

under the shade of richer fabrics than what he wore last night.

His eyes dart inward and watch the splay of his insides

intertwined like the root of all possible notion, leaving nothing settled

until the soul floods into his throat and the holy ghost spills out.