one word henry sings: logical
street people in they boxes
walkin the halls
of
all they
schools
they
precinct stations
they halls
o' governin
they be
the ritzy fools
captains
of the hunt
stirring
the mixing cup
of betty
crocker boxcake
minds
future imperfect
drownin us
in they pools
hijacking
at the breton
crossroads, time
we leff
dis place,
folk - head
for them thar
hills.
Labels: berryman sings too
posted by murat11 at 9:23 AM
9 Comments:
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.
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...
"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!!!
Teresa: Gotta have something stuck up the nose, right? As long as it's the right stuff, no?
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!
interesting. i like how your poems each have unique, distinct voices.
Thank you, Floreta. Lots of voices to choose from.
Yes, head for they hills, Henry. Before you get stirred into a Betty Crocker boxcake. That would make us huffy.
San: Huffy and, by the looks of the image, snuffly, too. Gotta luv that Berry-man and his Enrique.
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