Sunday Scribbling #133: "My Style"
They actually had to ask?
[as if desert was your last ending]
father wolf in the basement of the circle school
sucking on communion wine
wheeze of subterranean a/c
running fountain of toilets overhead
votive legions
he’s a papal fandango
papal bull
charlton heston without his pistols
he’s still a major motion picture
not your average bear
not your average Budweiser
earl abel’s éclair in krispy kreme disguise
father wolf in the basement of the circle school
ypsalanti
victoria texas was definitely not in his visualizations of
the fall of
much less the basement of the circle school
but mary’s been his steady since 1938
upper peninsular sequined mary
he used to glue her face inside grape nehi bottle caps
long before folk art was capitalized
long before the advent of surface design
in the last daze what avatars of foot cheese
will spoil our fun?
not father wolf in the basement of the circle school
zz top beard spread across his luciano pavarotti chest
his gold tooth displayed
versace in papal black
he’s hot for lucinda williams or
at least mary chapin carpenter’s version of the same
passionate kisses on the stoop at our lady of perpetual help
before they kicked him out
nuns scandalized by his holy flame
sisters of mercy without an ounce of the latter
father wolf in the basement of the circle school
sez:
buck
hand me a slitz
buck the altar boy turned chauffeur valet
buck with his fine stash of Eurodollars
the envy of GPS
master carpenter master of disguise
jerusalem artichoke of worry
he sez:
you’ve been out of slitz for a week
which worries the good father in the basement of the circle school
slitz is the moral fiber a body needs
when you’re gluing cotton balls to your bald spot
when the elmer’s glue is running out
when st. jude’s your drinking buddy
and even the little flower’s patience is running thin.
gloom – feral gloom – invades the dark sanctuary of
the circle.
nusrat, good buck
sez father wolfgang amadeus jones
in the basement of the circle school
parochial bane of sorrows, poor clares, prompt succors
good buck fires up the
nusrat rumble on the box
nusrat fateh ali khan on the verve label
barry white of the pakistani set
you see the father in the basement of the circle school’s got a date with
dark mary over on
two sword scars on her right cheek
from a street fight on rigsby avenue
on the ride over,
wolf sez:
can the nusrat, buck
gimme a sermon from 1959
from before the bald spot
opulent waves of papal fur
the envy of the entire coastal archdiocese
buck slips in a burned cd from the wolfman’s archive
155 of his own sermons downloaded from napster
this darkened pair cruising
tortoises of autumn libido
progenitors of visionary bliss
aqualungs of vital despair
anarchists of the five and dime
cheesebearers of the ultimate queso
supplicants of vivid mescal
top down, buck
sez the good frere
as the first hail hits the vinyl top
calm the waters, buck
sez the good frere
as soggy cotton balls fall from his crown
as last temptation smiles down
as amethyst invades his memory
as the black madonna drowns his sorrow-ridden kiss.
Labels: seems to be
posted by murat11 at 5:50 PM
26 Comments:
This is compelling - I love the juxtaposition of zztop and Pavarotti, and the tortoises of autumn libido. Plus you mention my favourite Mary Chapin Carpenter song....
Thank you, CGP: Make a poem long enough and you can just about mention everything under the sun. It was fun.
ah the master of inuendo and flowing words into a river a freebird waiting for the sun
Thanks for characterizing the style: you did the assignment for me. :-D
My goodness, you either have a vivid imagination OR you take in every detail! I bet your wife knows & my guess is both!
I love the cotton balls, they paint quite a picture and having St Jude as a drinking bud, can I have him too!
Wonderfully fun and interesting poem.
Fantastic! I love the rhythm and the pace, and what a list! Terrific read.
http://keithsramblings.blogspot.com/2008/10/roseys-style.html
Ideas clothed in the imagery of the ordinary juxtaposed with the grandiose. I'm just not quite sure what the ideas are. The flow is compelling - compelling me to read it twice.
Tammie Lee: I loved making this poem, it was great fun. I would best compare my creative cerebrum to a combination lint collector and composter. I think I absorb more than I observe, if there is a difference. And, too, I am surely a magnet for the Father Wolf's of the world. Particularly if they are living in the basement.
Best to you, mi amiga de las montanas.
Keith: Thank you for your words. I wanted the poem to have the sense of a sad but stately promenade down the east side in that regal, if also somewhat broken and shabby, Lincoln. Glad you caught the pace.
Granny Smith: I was about to give you my knee-jerk "What? Me? Ideas?" but then I thought, no, there are ideas lurking here: off the top of my head: lingering devotion, even in the midst of loss, exile, despair, the cry for self-worth, and of course, plenty of Schlitz, when the good frere and Buck can make it to market.
Thank you for visiting again.
This reminded me of Tori Amos' lyrics, in the Boys for Pele album. Father Lucifer, Blood Roses and Caught a lite sneeze (see, it's resembling your poem already ;)
Well, Ms DM, you know what I'll be checking out next. After, of course, I pay you a visit over your way.
You made me laugh out loud with only my cabin walls to witness. 'combination lint collector and composter' I not only believe this but love the concept as well. And 'absorb more than I observe', yes sir there is a difference, a sort of wonderful one at that.
This comment list is a wonderful addition to your poem. A depth shared about and within what you have offered.
TL: Mil gracias again, amiga. A little more sanely cool down here today. Your gorgeous country and cabin feel like they're just around the corner.
Dead good! I love the way you use your characters to tell the story..
Cool style!
Thanks for the words, STG, and thanks for the visit.
I lurk here each week, awed into silence by your magnificent cadences and the mesmerizing flow of your brilliant and wide-ranging observations. Heady stuff for my stiff old wine skins, and more than a little intoxicating.
anno, thank you for coming out from behind the hedge, or the Lincoln Continental fin, as the case may be. I appreciate your words and willingness to hop in the car with these two "disarranged" (borrowing from you) pilgrims. The intoxication is no doubt from the "S(ch)litz" cans rolling around in the back. Peace.
Mesmerizing and delightful! Really delicious1
Linda, thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed the ride.
Well, I've always had a weakness for passionate kisses on the stoop at our lady of perpetual help. Not sure if it's a character flaw or my redemption. Anyway, I sure liked this.
Thanks for stopping by. Just so you know, there's no risk of incurring font trauma at my blog: you'll never see anything like Comic Sans.
And that you found anything of Mary Oliver in my poem? Made my day. Thanks!
BTW. When was the last time you were in Ypsilanti? I just had dinner there early last week...
anno: Busted I am: I've never been to Ypsilanti. Never, it now occurs to me, been to Michigan at all. No doubt, Father Wolf was tossed out somewhere along the way: his papal fandango only plays here in the sun belt: folks in the upper peninsula be way too smart for his Versace ooze.
Anything at OLPH is probably redemption. Our Lady of Prompt Succor is where you probably have to worry. They have post-it notes on their stoop.
I have no fear of font trauma at anno's place: it's clearly a classy joint.
so tell em then... you were raised a Protestant???? LOL!!!! this was soooo clever so well put together and what a train of thought!!!!!!
Ooh, baby! Love dat Lincoln! She need a good pain’ job an’ god know’d whad unda dat hood, but man, oh man, she a mile-long beauty, sho nuff! She ain’ no Cadi, bud I kin pi’ture Fatha Wolf behine da wheel o’ dat fine automobile wid ‘is ZZ Top beard an’ ‘is gold toof display’d wid da nuns in da back playin’ barmaid to da betray’d. An’ when dey git to da seben-eleben, they too wasted to put dey hands on some slitz, neva mind some elma’s glitz. An’ well it don’ matter none anyhow, cause you know’d what happen’d to dem cotton balls by da time da joy ride was ova. And you know’d Miss A be ‘specially lovin’ dis pieca work, ma man. She done tol’ me she puttin’ it up in da Booker Hall O’ Fame, yessa!
paisley: I suspect it's Father W's and Buck's spiritual credentials that are more in question than their translator and his runaway trains of thought. Peace.
Ms A: The jive voice of your Ninth Ward avatar is doing its own papal fandango in my head with the lovely thespian pix over at the construction site. Could she have channeled Ninth Ward at that age? I suspect that she probably could. I suspect that's what had Charley laughing.
The Slitz devotees and they translator be most happy to be in any hall of fame arbitered by the soul sister of a thousand voices.
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