FORTNER ANDERSON
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Fortner Anderson, expatriate Tennessee preacher of the millennial news and patron saint of the Montreal Performance Poetry scene. Long-time host of CKUT radio's "Dromotexte" spoken word show, as well as promoter of Brazen Oralities spoken word reviews, Fortner tours and performs in eastern Canada, and resides in Montreal. |
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The Birds
I listen as the glistening skin rubs against the sharp rooftops within its infinite white bowl a single fire churns and the light sweats off the pale screen and drips to earth where it clings hot and raw to the corner of Duluth and Drolet
Each falling drop stings my open eye so I must turn away from the world
Awake this Sunday morning as I stroll to the park
In my dark pockets I keep soft hands busy. they worry these two coins together rubbed around and around and around
I do not see the bird above me behind me I hear it
Its sudden cry breaks my stride I do not see the bird I hear the caw and screech of a name
I do not see the bird but my neck knows the sharp stone beak
I do not see the bird my fingers know the glass bead it has for an eye
I do not see the bird my tongue knows the torn wing and the yellow packing that pushes through its rotten seams
I do not see the bird but my eye knows the jaws agape and the leather tongue that sits erect in its black pulpit
I do not see the bird but I know the taste of dust and formaldehyde as it presses close as it pitches and yaws held tight to my ear with its net woven of lies and supplications
I raise my hands Praise be I raise these hands
Two pink slabs torn from guilty morning pleasures splayed up against the belly of the heaven to block the light to stanch the voice to stuff into the bloody hole that sharp beak will soon tear into the sky
I stand here and wait till the two bone staves close tight upon me I will be plucked up and tossed a flailing broken thing up onto the bubbling skin of heaven's scalding pot where the fire and light will render yellow fat and splintered thighs into eider and hollow bone wings whole and pure
And out of the sun I too will sail once and soon
But the cry fades and from these wicked hands only a dark stream falls of hair and bone and scale this dross scuttles onto earth stuffed into a nest of rags and toys
The crack in the sky is filled and in the quiet of this day I rub my coins together and take this next step into the world
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