Скачать или смотреть Tim Seibles - Midnight, the Coyote, Down in the Mouth - Poem

Tim Seibles reading his poem "Midnight, the Coyote, Down in the Mouth" from his book Hurdy Gurdy. Its best if you just listen and don't watch my sad attempt at matching images to the poem because I ran out of pictures too quick and the poem speaks to so much more than the cartoon.

MIDNIGHT: THE COYOTE, DOWN IN THE MOUTH by Tim Seibles

I used to sleep so well
my mother could carry me
by the neck scruff without
waking me up. Even the dark
tasted good with the quiet noise
of family around me- and sunrise
simply meant I could catch
grasshoppers drunk on dew.
Of course, I didn't know
the road-runner then,
and whatever I wanted
seemed nearby and easy.

Now I close my eyes
and he's there in slow-motion
technicolor, all a'trot,
his heart like a little
tom-tom, loud enough to be
visible inside that
boney chest. Come morning
it'll be the same, but hotter-
a buzz of shins, the road
sizzling like a fuse.
Meep. Meep.


I used to believe what I did
mattered in some spectacular way,
as if a big audience sat somewhere
really watching, really
wondering how well I would do
out here. At first, I
thought it was only a matter
of time. I'd put on a bib,
pick up some silverware, duck
behind a cactus- just to
ham it up a little.
He was mine: I figured
a few near-misses for sus-
pense then chomp! The
good life. Of course.

I've been after the road-runner
for so long- I can't tell
if it's hunger, love, or
just plain stupidity.
Maybe that's what's so
goddamn funny: my life
whittled down to a riot
of wild pursuits and slim
chances to grab something I
don't even understand. I mean,
if I had his speed I'd get
the hell away from here. I'd
be so gone even color
couldn't catch me.


It's crazy I've died
lots of times. Lots. Blown-up.
Bowled over by boulders.
Run over by trucks.
Some days, when I'm a 1000 feet
below the ledge and a
1000 more from impact, I stop
and look up at that
pebble-headed feather-duster
and touch my chin. Who
keeps bringing me back? How
can I keep hitting the ground
and keep getting up with nothing
but another scheme?

It's got to end somewhere,
doesn't it? There's got to be
some way to I don't even
wanna be a coyote anymore,
canniverist-sharpist-toothist.
It's not me- it's like my
appetite doesn't belong
in my belly, like I'm hungry
because someone else wants
to eat, like I'm stuck in this story
no matter how bad I want
to get out- and me trying
to get out of the story
IS the story. Nevermind.

Of course, I think my life
means something.
And, of course, it does.
Otherwise, I'd be running around
all the time and there'd be
no- it would seem like
my life had been,
I mean, who hasn't wondered,
right? But if this
is not my life, then
what am I doing?
And who should I ask?

Honestly, if you can just
stand still for a minute you

start to see the whole
show. I mean- it's all

perspective; if you can
step out of the action

long enough to catch
your breath you

become your own
audience. And, of course,

there you are,
a scrawny animal
starving in the middle

of a desert,
sqeezing your knife
and fork.