Saturday, September 12, 2009

one word henry sings: logical

street people
in they boxes
walkin the halls
all they
precinct stations
they halls
o' governin
they be
the ritzy fools
of the hunt
the mixing cup
of betty
crocker boxcake
future imperfect
drownin us
in they pools
at the breton
crossroads, time
we leff
dis place,
folk - head
for them thar



Blogger Dee Martin said...

I think Henry smells a rat and I would be right on his heels if he had any. No tellin what those suburban housewife gangs might do once stirred up. Love folk - head. This made me smile and I find I like Berryman.

5:21 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: I agree that Henry definitely smells a rat, though sometimes he's just smelling himself. Berryman is the patron saint of all things Muravian. I was a late convert to the loon, but I'm way over the edge now...

6:39 PM  
Blogger Teresa said...

"stirring the mixing cup of Betty Crocker boxcake minds"

What an image, Murat!! I love your head with the kleenex up its nostrils. Trying to avoid the stench of stirred up, burnt up Betty Crocker boxcake brains!!!

7:11 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Teresa: Gotta have something stuck up the nose, right? As long as it's the right stuff, no?

7:15 PM  
Blogger Teresa said...

You're a teacher, Murat, and you're telling me about stuff to put up my nose... At least it's not a rubber hose!

10:19 PM  
Blogger floreta said...

interesting. i like how your poems each have unique, distinct voices.

12:10 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Thank you, Floreta. Lots of voices to choose from.

12:24 AM  
Blogger San said...

Yes, head for they hills, Henry. Before you get stirred into a Betty Crocker boxcake. That would make us huffy.

3:42 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

San: Huffy and, by the looks of the image, snuffly, too. Gotta luv that Berry-man and his Enrique.

7:58 AM  

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