seaside prompt
This on the marquee at Pappadeaux's this morning, as I was driving down the highway: Shrimp Montage. Y'all players, consider that your prompt, while the Sunday girls are waking up.
reef massage
shrimp montage
cinematic calamari
jelly-faced little ottos squeezing
feisty displays
anglerfish catharsis, manta
raybans checking out the babes
actuarial sea-slickers
swimming in profit shares
even hanks could not
resist. williams charts
another blockbuster-
cuttlefish rhapsody, the ins
& outs of craven disguise
Shane was their mister
(Come back, Shane!)
scrambling down the western reefs
massaging the protean myths
digitized oblivion
carrion in the trenchant streets.
reef massage
shrimp montage
cinematic calamari
jelly-faced little ottos squeezing
feisty displays
anglerfish catharsis, manta
raybans checking out the babes
actuarial sea-slickers
swimming in profit shares
even hanks could not
resist. williams charts
another blockbuster-
cuttlefish rhapsody, the ins
& outs of craven disguise
Shane was their mister
(Come back, Shane!)
scrambling down the western reefs
massaging the protean myths
digitized oblivion
carrion in the trenchant streets.
Labels: viscous
posted by murat11 at 10:20 AM
9 Comments:
Now this is fun!!! Shrimp montage indeed. Love the cinematic calamari in their manta raybans swimming in profit shares of their blockbuster popular "art" in which they massage protean myths into digitized oblivion until it becomes carrion in the trenchant streets. You been out to Hollywood lately and didn't look me up, bro?
T: That was those other Episcopalians out your way; I'm just driving the highways and byways of Tres Leches, trolling for material.
Glad you had fun. I did.
Well, those Episcopalians were plenty subversive and raised a lot of Cain around here. I certainly thought your voice might have been raised among theirs. Maybe you were here in spirit, but your poem certainly captures a certain je ne sais quoi that one finds only in Hollywood among the cinematic calamari and jumbo prawns that swarm among the trenchant streets called Melrose and Rodeo Drive!
Teresa: Well, sadly for the lone wolves back here in the Diocese of West Texas, subversion seems to be on the other foot, the conservative foot. The national church has spoken out in favor of full inclusion, but left its legislation to be descriptive, not proscriptive: ergo, bishops will do as bishops will do. Ours, by all their own votes and apparent inclinations, will continue to impede the process/progress out here in the backwoods.
All of which is beside the point of this seafood buffet. And how did I miss out on the jumbo prawns? That was a most excellent addition to the underwater parade.
Well, I'm assuming they were hiding under the Texas "turf" in your post on the bull riding abuelo, so they didn't show up in the "surf" post on this "surf n' turf" Thursday special.
What a fine way to get a prompt, hermano, and not just because Pappadeaux’s was one of my favorite restaurants in Dallas. It’s a silly reason, why I’m silly about it. It’s got something to do with the special observance of commonplace things, the things we pass one or more time in the course of a day. I get the feeling you’ve got the wonder-of-living thing down. But me, I need some work. And I suppose this wonder-of-living thing has everything to do with your ability to relax and let your crazy-cool words flow and flow around the jelly-faced little ottos and the ins and outs of craven disguise.
DOM: Good to hear from you. I don't know about the wonder-of-living thing, but the greenspace of the commonplace seems to have taken hold. Mirrored in one of my favorite poems (I think we've visited about this one before):
The City Limits
Aw, man, I don’t recall. My memory’s gettin’ bad, scary bad. I’m a vitamins freak so I’m starting to take beaucoups things for my head—B12 and niacin and formulas that have L-tyrosine, L-Phenylalanine,Taurine, DMAE and such. And I may have already told you all that. LOL! But I tell you I sure do like that poem as I read it now. The birds’ bones making no awful noise against the light, swervings of the weaving heart, dumped guts of a natural slaugher… Chewable, all of it, even the coils of shit.
You got all of that right, sister. It is one righteously chewable poem, right down to them coils. This was the first poem, as an "adult," as a "poet" meself, that I memorized.
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