by David Lewitzky
The funky chicken flies
in the red morning sun.
In a red sky,
red winds batter red clouds.
Red trees sway in a red forest.
Red sand drifts in a red desert.
In red heat, in red snow,
we dance the funky chicken.
When the funky chicken soars and swoops,
children leave the red cities for the red journey.
It is wretched. It is beautiful.
Across the world, in strangers’ fields,
red wheat waves, red grass grows.
Red temples rise in a red mist.
When red stars appear, gods rest.
A red army in a forbidden palace
does the funky chicken.
When red guns sing in the red-black night
red blood’s a red love song.
The funky chicken’s up there in red eternity.
Cry red tears for the funky chicken.
It is sordid. It is beautiful.
David Lewitzky is a retired social worker/family therapist living in Buffalo, New York. As a young man, he studied with Charles Olson, who transformed his life. He regards him as his spirit father. He has published recent work in Nimrod, Red Wheelbarrow, and River Oak Review, among others. The pieces here are from a work-in-progress book of poetry titled Dream of Myself as the Non-Stop Dancing Master. (95 pieces done, about 10 more to go.)