Notes for My Body Double (Prairie Schooner Book Prize in by Paul Guest

By Paul Guest

Who could wager that Godzilla, the Invisible guy, Elvis, Donald Duck, Ted Williams, and the 3 Stooges may have whatever to claim in regards to the love and loss that form the way in which we see the area? And but those are the pop-culture coordinates that chart the emotional lifestyles brilliantly mapped out in Paul Guest’s moment booklet of poems. Winner of the Prairie Schooner Prize in Poetry, this assortment plumbs the depths of nature and tradition (how, for example, “gar” in outdated English capacity “spear,” and an octopus can lose a limb in the course of mating) to provide shape to the darkness and the sunshine that make us human. In poetry whose tone is basically considered one of lament tempered by way of a wry and clever humor, Paul visitor does what a poet does top: he supplies us the moments of his lifestyles refashioned to mirror the bigger arc and that means of our own—of existence, that's, writ huge. (20070402)

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In the largest eyes ever, the goggling gimlets of the architeuthis as we sink in the inkwell dark of the blind ocean. As extras in the cast of Yog the Space Amoeba, mouthing Japanese we never before knew, our fear real, the danger fake, each building burnt like a cheap cigarette, down to an ashen stub, down to the loveless earth where you say to me we must run or die. indd 31 6/29/07 11:31:14 AM Seduction with Entropy If you think I’m honest, speak to me when it’s night. I’ll say anything when my face is blank like a moon.

Alone, I would have been fine. Filled my days with model trains and trees whittled down, lowered my face into miniature smoke rising from the locomotive, at once acrid and sweet— inhaling it all, a heaven to hold forever. Or, a picnic, on a green hill. Autumn sun, sandwiches stacked high, and who I could love with me on a red gingham blanket, both of us fattened by time. You would think a bone stoppered my throat for how I talk, ridiculous clot of babble and gurgle, impediment as dreamed by the idiot or obvious— and then writ large, screamed out so no one with ears could ever miss me.

Let’s pretend the moon isn’t the sky’s scar tissue. Let’s pretend the artifact of our breath will remain obedient, not like a dog licking the salt from your hands, but like a robot or a butler, or in a better world than this one, a robot butler. Let’s say it was summer and the world became a lurid green and all we could do to survive was darn the socks of tyrants in a cave beside the green murmur of the sea. What would it mean turning to you in the night disguised in the milk light of the moon?

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