238 Readings | 1 Rating

Beardmore Glacier


Did you know when a tongue of glacier carves off
A piece of itself into a blue death, it is called “calving?”
And how fitting that a tongue could give birth,
Much like how mouths mother such speech. Calamitous
Shift in the earth’s gentle stasis. Moraine of sounds built
Up in our throats, grunts and gutturals, plosives and spit.
Ablate this bitter fluid with a persistent sun. Eons of
Passionless friction will erode beyond any reason this
Gritted bed where no one can sleep.
    Quickly, cast the line.
Swirl cubes against the goblet, snouts entice bell-like tings
from out the crystal: melted sand, ice, and glass (perpetual
motion) terminus of man, glacier, and land,
intensification of sun, we’re fucked, Greenland wipes its
sweaty brow. Chatter, striate, glisten, grind. Twice a day
an ice shelf in Antarctica vomits a seismic seven, but you
cannot feel it from the surface—the way one could shiver
so hard in their gut without anyone being the wiser.
Chirps and croaks, a sharp crack rings out from the forest.


When the day comes when all we knew is ice. When
the ice age devours all we had adored. When the land
is eaten by saprophagous factories. Maggots adorn this
delicious vessel. Stupor. Just now a looming epoch of ice
the size of God’s head broke off and crumbled, decanted
itself into the devouring ocean. Meanwhile, a child learns
peekaboo, and in Kampala a fourteen year old girl shrieks,
grunts, gives a final push, and births a stillborn baby.

Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock.
Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock. Bedrock.
Bedraggled and known till we could not know it, this
sense of ownership where none could exist. Fences
demarcating mine versus yours, meanwhile the bedrock
upon which we stand is ground up and placed in an
hourglass—eonglass—hope is a faded strip of denim.

Beardmore Glacier looms: a foreign dignitary whose
stiff spine is pride, whose glowing skin betrays little
pigment, so very white though pocked a bit, ravaged
adolescence—acne vulgaris—but Beardmore doesn’t
let it drag him down, au contraire! He faces the world
with a rare confidence. But then the globe warms up…

The Earth sings, “I’m a little teapot / hoary and proud. /
Here’s my equator / I’m not flat but sort of round. /
When I get polluted / and taste like grout / the tipping
point is past / It’s too late now.” Today’s episode of Preachy
Street is brought to you by 7 and impending mass extinction.

Velleitous shiver in the gut suggests, “Perhaps you would
feel better if you shirked the consumerism of your forefathers.”
But then again, the sitcoms are awfully inviting and, well,
the beer is cold and the sofa is warm and why me? Nope. You.


Most people don’t have a vision.
Most people have a favorite TV show.

When at last human speech is unnecessary.
Posted 07/22/13
Comments (0)