What's a Grecian Urn? Oh, about $6.75 an hour...
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TO MY SONIC TOOTHBRUSH
—Laura LeHew, Eugene, OR
The caress of his soft bristles,
scalloped for deep, pleasurable cleaning,
sonic waves pulsating,
thirty-one thousand strokes per minute,
regulator rendering blissful equality
to awaiting molars, bicuspids, incisors.
Magnanimous rechargeable batteries,
enduring up to 2 weeks—alone.
His comely recharger light,
indicating imminent insertion into base.
The stimulation of his handsome non-slip ergonomic grip,
with authomatic shutoff timer, singular of purpose,
pleasantly removing plaque, whitening teeth,
improving oral soundness and salubrious checkups,
thwarting disease, saving money,
my sonic toothbruth has enraptured me—
happy hygienist.
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Thanks, Laura! Tonight's the deadline for the Thing-a-Thon: Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s)—by midnight tonight (Tuesday, 6/20), and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.
News from Staajabu:
I wrote to Staajabu to get her new address so I could send her a new Snake (with JoAnn Anglin's wonderful interview of her daughter, V.S. Chochezi, in it), and she wrote back: Good to hear from Sacramento friends, kathy! NJ is just beautiful, luscious and green right now with occasional thunder storms (real thunder storms) and 80-85 degree sunny days. Days are full of family, friends, church activities, weddings, birthdays, cook-outs and helping out this one and that one with the old folks and young. I'm in my element! Took a ride with 3 of my best cousins Saturday through deep country woods down to the creek and ate deep fried chicken wings in hot sauce at an old beat up' wood, splinterful, picnic table, while shooing flys, ducks, ants and mosquitoes away. Ahhh country livin'. Nothin' like it. The move was smooth, thanks for the positive vibrations! Regards to all. Be well, staajabu. She says Sacramento people can write to her at her e-mail address: staajabu@yahoo.com.
Still on the Slither:
You may receive your new Rattlesnake Review in the mail today, or you may not; as usual, they're going out in batches. Rhumbas, as it were. Or pick one up free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Or come to the Urban Voices reading tomorrow night at the South Natomas Library, or the Los Escritores reading on Friday (see yesterday's post for details on these); I'll be at both, if'fn the creek between here and downtown Sacramento don't rise...
More Thing Poems:
FIREFALL
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento
We stood in fantasy
watching the red waterfall
tumble, roar from the summit
sparks snapping down
into Yosemite Valley,
never thinking about fire danger,
rangers below, ready
with a few water buckets.
How could we not?
Not know the simplicity,
marching into that docile crowd,
an ancient land we thought
we knew, avoiding the bigger
blaze? —leaving singed boots
to stomp out brushfires
for years to come.
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POME
—Robert Grossklaus, Rancho Cordova
I'd bite into it were it not for the bruise
and the thought of the premature rotting
beneath its surface.
It's just a thought.
The fruit is, most likely,
just as sweet
were its outsides firm,
waxed gleaming... and still
I pause before ploughing my
teeth into its soft flesh.
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BLACK BANANA
—Tim Kahl, Sacramento
At the bottom of the bowl
suffering a hungry child’s neglect,
the once proud fruit of the Dominican
goes soft inside like paste that holds shut
envelopes traveling from Brazil to Missoula.
The whole family shuns the black banana.
It is assumed to be bruised. It should be
buried in the trash with the other scraps
of orange peel and egg shell and blister-pak
that saved the apple’s soul from damage.
It cannot serve as middle class treat.
It blemishes the remodeled kitchen
with its ventilating hood that broadcasts
prep smells the length of the street.
There’s no time to eat you, imperfect expatriate.
Go back to your place in the aisles of produce.
No one ever thought you’d stay this long,
shriveling in full view of the guests who’ve
started to comment. They talk in bold tones
that you contaminate other fruit.
The flies hover and dive at the flesh when
its sides split from handling. Someone
tried to hold on too hard, or was it
laughing and crying that burst its seams?
This mess requires an intervention,
a paternal will that heeds and discerns
what dirties from what is scrupulously clean.
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Thanks, Jeanine, Robert, and Tim, for playing along with the Thing-a-Thon!
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)