It's just poetry, it won't bite

A Pot of Chili

03.29.12 Posted in words to linger on by

William Wright Harris’ poem Ode on a Fortune Cookie appeared here in February 2012.

A Pot of Chili
By William Wright Harris

is bubbling
on my stove,
spitting grease
tomato sauce, Jack
son Pollack
weaving wind on
my kitchen wall.

Pound saying, 
if America has
no place for poetry
then it has
no place for me,
leaving for a cage
in Italy.
Bukowski pointing
his BMW towards 
the racetrack to
forget his typewriter
is humming for him
in his LA home.
Poe, drowning in
a puddle in Baltimore;
finally returning
to the sea of Lee.
Wheatley’s lines
in the tanned skin
of an African.
Kerouac leaving 
and naked plates of
pie a la mode all
over America,
using the night sky as
his blanket.
Dickinson making my
bleed and beat
from her attic,
wearing more white
a wedding cake.
Gilbert walking the
streets of Pittsburgh
painting portraits
of Michiko on his
cheek with every
Frost farming in New
Hampshire, working plow
across earth; working word
across page.
Lowell making Pound’s
beard white with
froth in outrage
and perhaps panic?
Longfellow doing
the best he could
with a funny name
and gray halos.
Williams and 
cummings delivering
babies, reinventing the 
and manunkind in
the Northeast.

These are the chills,
salt, pepper, and thyme,
the meat and beans
–tomato paste–

an amalgamation
of America
bubbling on my stove.

One Response to “A Pot of Chili”

  1. bobbie troy says:

    I love this!

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