About Donald Marsh
Donald Marsh is a published poet and novelist. Two collections, The Clouds of Magellan and An Ice Cream Communion, were published by Caminito Press. An Ice Cream Communion was nominated for The Pushcart Prize. His novel, The Stone Humpers, was published by Delacorte Press.
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Dancin' Man (Added 2/10/98)In the silvered steamed bathroom morning mirror pause to study my genitals reflected as a glum old roue with pubic hair toupee, Fagin penis nose, balls depraved jowls sagging sadly. Groin needs cheering up. Arms spread bolero, I dance. Crotch becomes Muppet fierce as I vamp the testicular tango, the penis pavane and time-step, becomes bouncy as I do Strike Up the high stepping Band. Groin is grinning toothless as it hootchy-kootchys into shorts and pants, bounding snugmerry as I do Falling-Off-The-Log Walk-The-Dog-Bojangles out of the mirror into the day. Three Manifestations (Added 2/10/98)1 My fear is a knuckle-faced dwarf who so loves to skewer people with spit and icepick words, pinning them exposed to the day for all to see and snicker. My dwarf fear is so tired and lonely, knowing, sooner or later, someone will sneak attack, hurling acid words. So he sits erect in a too big chair, legs straight ahead with ping-pong eyes. 2 My fear is a grinning young boy so happy to be walking hands in pockets, swaggering manly in lampoon. I want him to walk so easy forever, genial mocking man walk, walking with spine arched, so wanting to be like me, like you. Boy fear walking knowing he will slump and fail, at some point in anguish sell out for as little as a smile and nod. 3 Finally my fear is an old woman sitting hands folded in lap with the light fading to night. Sits resigned, knowing that what has happened will happen again. So the she of me sits admitting the letting go of fear being the final fear. Nothing left but to bless dwarf and boy and woman in the slowly so softly settling silence. Things Falling ApartBarn with swaybacked beam just sits down pachyderm, folds fetal in splinter ricks. Man on a lunch-hour street stops, slowly chews the air. Knows he has lost faith. Clatters down on crosswalk, severed puppet strings. Things falling apart to make a kaleidoscopic compost pile, a fervent heating, a somnambulant turning, an arising of the primal voice saying I am I want I dare.
Donald Marsh can be reached at:
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