Monday, October 25, 2010

Resenting the Flugelhorn

Black and Violet
Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, 1923

Pruned by the drone, drone, drone
of stingless bees,
I now resent
the flugelhorn, ocarina and kazoo
that sound only
to hear themselves
disreguarding cellos
and harmonicas
that cool the edge ot the air
meeting at the juncture
of north to east walls.

Rocks of slush
are tossled
between the bridgework
of an acrobat
with palasied mind
and torpid finger.


Part I

There was a small sun
in the sky that week
a thimble-size
but better than before.

Margie was glad
growth was on the mend
except the balance of certain items
seemed ramified
too much.

Nigel would agree
if he only could
the page was misaligned
next as much as the moon.

The warts read by the shorter
Olivia held no water
just a pulp
and graham cracker-thin touch.

Part II

Nigel still retained
his two-hour showers
despite the lack of interest
from the over-riding sky.

Margie wears real ocelot
the last one anyway
it was dying under
tires of possum-like stealth.

Olivia does everything else
no flair of course
expecting the insidious incisors
that bring doubt along
at the biweekly wake.

Part III
Margie meets Olivia
at a deal table at Lemonade Joe's
carrying one seashell
the other opposes
and Leo the clergyman concurs.


Heart attack
to death,
not too old.

In 1952,
they would have refused
such a transfusion;
the Guilifoyles of central Mississippi
could not take
such a shock.....

they depended on others
to use
and survive,
and let those lesser
always know that
was a God-derived fact.

Blanche would never be
any longer
just the opposite
if you will.

Equality achieved
for many Southern wrongs.



Lester said
I hate my body
it won't work
with me
to get to nirvana.

The eyes won't look
deep enough inside
and the heart is
close to the surface of
basic days and places
The feet won't cradle
any shoes just right
and the neck can't even suppot
a decent-sized noose.
And the brain
can't hold tangents
as well as logic

that is what disturbs me the most.


Tugging at the traditional
trying to open it up
to new adventures

I throw the rock
of rage wracking
its face to response

The khakis are stained
the knit tie frayed
the cataclysm concluded.



Just saying it

after spilling a zombie
atop my blue BMW
forgetting my day of graduation
from Notary Public school
slapping me a little harder
than necessary for calling
your cousin Carleton an ugly baby gone to seed
keeping me around twice
with no thing to do
soiling the pages
of my new book on Upton Sinclair
with huckleberry parfait
or washing my dog with tomato juice
just to tint his black fur

would have most likely ended
World War IV


Today's LittleNip:



—Medusa (with thanks to Michael Cluff of Highland, CA for today's poetry!)

Daybreak, Tagesanbruch
Poster by Joan Miró, 1968