the self-taught genius (for Thornton Dial, Sr.)
By Robert Anthony Gibbons
“Learning is borrowed knowledge; genius is knowledge innate and quite our own.”
(Edward Young, Conjectures on Original Composition)
birds got to have somewhere to roost, no wonder grandpa collected all those truck tires, full of
rain water and lizards, pieces of a hood from an old chevrolet, an old green awning, far to the
back near his tool shed, had not used it in years, someone said it is dead back there, or maybe it
was just a yard show of lead pipes and broken down machines.
Those dry bones of an old transmission gave him admonition to get up early every day, birds got
to have somewhere to roost, his legs the color of papaya juice and spider skillets, his head hangs
beneath the lid of the car or his mind far into his chemistry.
he could take it all apart and put it back together, be it turbine, or carbine, combine, or main line,
it was the hum that I remember, the crankshaft, the smell and whiff of oil beneath his fingernails;
he likes to be dirty as much as he likes to get up early
birds got to have somewhere to roost, his post was handyman, but you can say a blend
of chemist and artist, novice without education, just a ration of screws and nuts and bolts and
chokes and he told me to help, so I would pump the grease, it would release energy, he wanted it
done right, so he would be finicky
birds got to have somewhere to roost, he had to band aid those wounds from the war, the tune of
the engine gave him peace, until he fixed it there was no release, it is all day and into the night,
his station had a pilot light, his supper is cold, he is still there we already know.
By Robert Anthony Gibbons
“Learning is borrowed knowledge; genius is knowledge innate and quite our own.”
(Edward Young, Conjectures on Original Composition)
birds got to have somewhere to roost, no wonder grandpa collected all those truck tires, full of
rain water and lizards, pieces of a hood from an old chevrolet, an old green awning, far to the
back near his tool shed, had not used it in years, someone said it is dead back there, or maybe it
was just a yard show of lead pipes and broken down machines.
Those dry bones of an old transmission gave him admonition to get up early every day, birds got
to have somewhere to roost, his legs the color of papaya juice and spider skillets, his head hangs
beneath the lid of the car or his mind far into his chemistry.
he could take it all apart and put it back together, be it turbine, or carbine, combine, or main line,
it was the hum that I remember, the crankshaft, the smell and whiff of oil beneath his fingernails;
he likes to be dirty as much as he likes to get up early
birds got to have somewhere to roost, his post was handyman, but you can say a blend
of chemist and artist, novice without education, just a ration of screws and nuts and bolts and
chokes and he told me to help, so I would pump the grease, it would release energy, he wanted it
done right, so he would be finicky
birds got to have somewhere to roost, he had to band aid those wounds from the war, the tune of
the engine gave him peace, until he fixed it there was no release, it is all day and into the night,
his station had a pilot light, his supper is cold, he is still there we already know.
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