<B>
<br>William Hunt</B>
William Hunt (whunt@netone.com) was born in Elmhurst, did a fellowship
at University of Mass, and is currently teaching in Longmont, Colorado.
The Presentations, a collection of forty-six prose poems by William B.
Hunt,
written 1983-1995, have been put online now at the EK Arts pages,
http://www.netmode.com/ekpages/Hunt.html
Presentation 430
Ancient Explosions are Destroying My Sleep
Your music, Doctor Rose, springs like chokecherries to the lips of the
soprano all
April. April may, or it may not. Last April, it was music, stars rushing
their beautiful manners and bleak mannerisms, the sea-battles of September,
your cold red High Church. Ancient explosions are destroying my sleep.
There are too many angry tulips
streaked with blood, too many stars with blood in their hair. Show me the
blasted steel column where they hung Doctor Rose, his heart hammered with a
burning
television and a red clock, black star leaf in a planet, sword-sorcery,
crushed midnight
diamonds.
Presentation 760
Touching an oak leaf in my old age I bring to bear on it the pain of
Chinese philosophy. I am letting the oak leaf fall down into my old age
like a leaf that will fall down into a meadow well or brooklet to be still
on the face of the water and to fulfill
the touching of the oak leaf to the old man in me, the old man that was
once in my heart, no man more severe. The oak leaf will fall still more
silently. It is an old man's
oak leaf that will still fall.
Presentation 586
Goodbye Old Coke
Put me on that special list, the ones that really mourn the old
Coca-Cola. That
strong, bracing beverage which made merry millions of us over and over
again, that
special dark brew is now disappearing from the shelves at a rapid rate. I
could still go out now and find some store that sells the old Coca-Cola,
but how long can this pleasure last since the imposter, new Coca Cola, is
being shipped in by hundreds of cases? Goodbye, old Coca-Cola, you bracing
black turpentine, you stout after-shave,
goodbye old Coke once costing a nickle.
Presentation 1726
My father with hands warm as high octanes at a dead jetport in blue
leaves, my father who wisely thought nothing of Bartok's death, my father
who lived in the past
whenever I touched his echo, my father of gold still accruing in my memory,
my father whose bones were burned one morning, who rusted shut at night and
was whistled away
into absolute poetry, my father who listened to rock music while carrying
moist roots in his hands, my father who fell into the machinery of moody
spinning wheels, whose
enflamed iron spectacles longed for more nomad emergency moonrises....
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