Poetry: November 29, 2012
To well regarded Zooathalon resident
ELEPHANTS GERALD, (and resident music expert)
The choice seems these days to be either:
QUALIFIED, but not authorized, or
AUTHORISED, but not qualified.
Some days the ‘ITCH’,
Dominates the monkey.
But oh those days
When the itch,
Becomes the monkey’s bitch!
Including those moments bound
By the tether within their reach,
And the ‘stitch up’ of fisticuffs, with
The other simians of the fountainhead,
down at the beach.
THIS SHALL BE WORDY!
(Like your hips are curvy. Might more curry
Have left the pirates with less scurvy, Harvey?
Were the outlaws less than worthy?)
Cutting the cord is easy, like cutting the cake.
Like cutting a film for SCORSESE (don’t botch the final take)
Some things you just can’t make up, the narrative’s too heavy.
Like the wine before the wheat has baked
Enough to sniff and eat. With the solace of pressed olives,
You were invited to The Last Supper but balked at cleaning Judas’ feet.
And you left before the bill arrived, fearing whatever other
Traitors you might meet, who all taught at the local college.
Profiteroles and losses across the table flicked
With the fingers being licked between bites,
(Even jaded disciples love food fights!). They eagerly devoured
The seeds of the beets that sprouted, while among them were several
Noses that you’d already picked; surviving the burgundy autumn leaves,
That wallow in the swan song’s afterglow of summer’s they’ve already kicked.
Your hair was slick once before it grayed, and you slept with Ginger’s who never
Got paid and yet congregated breathlessly around your dick. And
While carrying fractions past their normal point of corroded
Decimals Doubted, while tortured birds whistle symphonies abreast,
Through their fractured noses, because their owners were being ‘outed’
(Failing blood and other ‘tests’, including penicillin doses).
They chant in code, “the rich need the poor, to fill up their
Prisons forevermore, so cultivate divisions”. And Mammon is
The mother behind these decisions, as much as one supposes.
And I warned you of the coming quest.
Castanets to the alphabet, thorn bugs to the roses. But the sun is
Rising forever yet, its death would be Surprising, if nature so imposes.
I surmise no less that you must do the best that you can do for those whose
Souls were left buried in mounds and concrete holes
Paying more to impress and kick around, the salmon swimming
In the river of life, beneath the tide’s duress, and the stream of
Consciousness that it gives, in what waters it baptizes. Forgetting
The winds of strife and the stresses it tempers and materializes. What
Fractal phases splintered into a mute’s indifferent sigh?
And why are all of your uncles now wearing dresses with lipstick as an alibi?
A banker somewhere freezes his balls off in the loping spawn of spring,
Waiting for Edgar, or Johnnie Winter; for a riff to hum, for a song to sing.
For a mind to inhabit and enter. FUNNY HAND SIGNS WILL NOT SAVE YOU.
And they will not let you pay back, the money they gave you, for placing your organs in harvest,
For spinning and roasting you over the rack, and peeling you like larvae.
You arrived in a box, smoked. You leave in a sack, and a swinging rope,
Your dangling feet never touching the wax. Nor enough time to flush all
Of your dope, down the slippery slope of descending tracks.