Crow Voice, Written and Spoken Word by Marc Beaudin

Writing at Grizfork Studio (Pica Pica)

Marc Beaudin

Each day begins
w/ the conversations of magpies
who never run out of things to talk about

Each morning unfolds
w/ the fact of those mountains
who never feel the need to say a thing

I sit at my desk
w/ both of them and try
to express something that lies between the two

On a good day, I come close.

Astronomy, 1:07 am

This barstool is the center
of the universe
and all these beautiful drunks;
planets and stars
named for half-forgotten gods–
spinning madly away
from some half-remembered Big Bang–
aligning themselves
into patterns of half-imagined constellations

And each successive bottle of beer;
a telescope
into their cloud-covered geographies

But somewhere in this bar;
perhaps in the wild, neon eyes
of the man gripping tight
to a melting glass,

or in the riverine hips
of the woman dancing alone
in her own pool of red light,

or in a napkin bleeding a phone number,
dropped to the floor like
a sycamore leaf in October,

or in a guitar string,
or a stray laugh,
or this pen–

somewhere is the Event Horizon:
the leading edge of a black hole,
silently and terribly
drinking in every particle
of intention and purpose
their pulses growing faster and fainter
with each decreasing revolution until
“Last call!”
sends up spiraling blindly
to a thousand anonymous oblivions.

And somewhere, millions of light years away,
a man standing alone
in his backyard
beside a broken tricycle
and a row of moon-spotted tomato plants,
looks up and foolishly,
like a child,
makes a wish.

Religion (Chordeiles Minor)

Nighthawk throws
its single note song
across the darkening sky
Then–
bell of a nearby church
begins to measure out
the remaining hours of the day

The bird falls silent–
listening … or not …
–then returns

These opposites are noted
by a slightly aging man on
his back porch:

The pure voice of that darting,
wide-mouthed bird catching
insects on the wing

and the frail clanging
of two thousand years’ worth
of dogma and doggerel
that only marks the moments leading
to our impending
death.

Born: Bay City, Michigan on Easter Sunday and the anniversary of John Booth’s final theatre performance, Marc Beaudin has worked as a pizza-slinger, tele-scammer, tree-hugger, corrupter of youth, paint-thrower, hammer-swinger, barista, bartender, wine-drinking dishwasher, door-to-door annoyace for the earth, cash register zombie, corrupter of adults, builder of monstrosities, mountebank and part-time rabblerouser.  A past resident of Symposia and Squatemala, he now lives in the shadow of the Absaroka  Mountains south of Livingston, Montana with his grandma’s cactus and a cat who winks. Visit Marc at CrowVoice.Com.