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Dude

Dude _______________ Charles Wright In my mind’s eye I always see The closed door to eternity. I think I’ll take it, and then I start to think I won’t. As though I had a choice in the matter. As though the other side of it was something inexorable, something fluxed. As though the though would never exist. The dog gets sick. The dog runs away. You’ve got your mind on transubstantiation. The dog Runs away. The dog gets sick, the son calls to tell you That he’s been fired. You’ve got your mind on transubstantiation. The world’s a mass of cold spaghetti. The dog runs away, your mind’s still on transubstantiation. The dog’s gone missing, the dog comes back. The same dog, but a different dog, in different weather. The droop-bellied dark clouds loom And suck up their forks of light and the dog goes missing. A second time, and who can blame him? If he disappears again, your mind’s back on transubstantiation. We live beyond the metaphysician’s fingertips. It’s sad, dude, so sad. There is no metaphor, there is no simile, and there is no rhetoric. To nudge us to their caress. The trees remain trees, God help us. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

_______________ Charles Wright In my mind’s eye I always see The closed door to eternity. I think I’ll take it, and then I start to think I won’t. As though I had a choice in the matter. As though the other side of it was something inexorable, something fluxed. As though the though would never exist. The dog gets sick. The dog runs away. You’ve got your mind on transubstantiation. The dog Runs away. The dog gets sick, the son calls to tell you That he’s been fired. You’ve got your mind on transubstantiation. The world’s a mass of cold spaghetti. The dog runs away, your mind’s still on transubstantiation. The dog’s gone missing, the dog comes back. The same dog, but a different dog, in different weather. The droop-bellied dark clouds loom And suck up their forks of light and the dog goes missing. A second time, and who can blame him? If he disappears again, your mind’s back on transubstantiation. We live beyond the metaphysician’s fingertips. It’s sad, dude, so sad. There is no metaphor, there is no simile, and there is no rhetoric. To nudge us to their caress. The trees remain trees, God help us.

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: May 12, 2011

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