Sunday Scribbling #191: Game
George Rodrigue: The Milleniumgamely, she squandered
five of the ten
ways she has
of fueling the masses
with her
five and dime
monkey see, monkey do-
ness. Politesse
her other game,
we were quickly
onto her gamey
smell, the touch
of patchouli that touches
the wild fauna
in even
the least of us,
wishing us down
its ferret ways,
gamboling
the gaming commissioners
lurking
in our black hearts,
raspberry-strewn
with configurations skyclad,
overdone,
Rodrigue's vestal dogs
memorizing the way home,
the way to palatial
pandemonium,
the way to soothe
this fevered brow.
Labels: george
posted by murat11 at 7:09 AM
26 Comments:
Well, all that gamey patchouli smell has triggered my allergies, bro.
I do like this one. I like the gaming "lurking in our black hearts, raspberry strewn."
I also like it that "the way home" is "the wa to palatial pandemonium, the way to soothe this fevered brow."
Don't give into that gambling addiction and lose the farm!
T: Patchouli is a dicey proposition: you love it or loathe it: I'm in the love crowd, probably another reason I love the Renaissance Fair. I'll cap the vial, though, and beg pardon to your nose.
I don't wear it, nor Tina (nor Mr. Baby), but I do love the scent.
Well, I used to love it before it started closing my throat and trying to kill me a couple of years back. I guess I will have to avoid Renaissance Fairs. Rats. That was something on my "Things to do before I am so old I can't walk" list.
patchouli brings back head shops and bell bottoms, and Ravi Shankar.
Who is this she and what are the ten ways to fuel the masses ( favorite line - the monkey see monkey do-ness). Monkeys and ferrets and other wild fauna in the back yard would be pandemonium of the most palatial level.
P.S. love Rodrigue's Oaks & Cajuns series.
Enjoyed your poem -
Teresa: I think you can still move through the fair: they're usually in nice wide-open spaces, and to tell the truth, I caught traces, but when you love the scent, traces are precisely what you want to catch.
Dee: I've no idea who she is, but she sure ain't tamed.
Thank you again, Tumblewords.
Thanks for making my day, bro!!
such a witty piece. the art is fun too.
patchouli is a bit much for me as well.
it is the worst when I hug someone and then smell of it myself. I like it from a distance.
Well alright, Sister Teresa.
Miz Lee: George Rodrigue's Blue Dogs certainly took New Orleans by storm in my last years there. I think I'm dating myself with all the patchouli talk: clearly, y'all is from the younger generations.
enjoyed the poem, and the art work; had to look up patchouli :)
jsd: Lucky you, that you had to look it up, though I feel sure you've scented, if not felt, the scent, somewhere along your way.
Rodrigue's virgin blue dog bitches lurking in the Quarter. The patchouli wafting from granola chicks and lesbians alike. Nothing like the scent of fauna, eh? Pheromonic musk, strange repulsive attraction. An aromatic push-me-pull-you only Doolittle could speak to.
Miguel: I think you scored the underbelly on this one. I'm sure it's all there somewhere...
I'm a fan of the Blue Dog and George Rodrigue and have carried his card in my wallet ever since New Orleans and visiting his exhibit there three years ago. And I loved that you included that enigmatic blue dog in your enigmatic writing that sings and soars and somehow leaves me not quite understanding the woman you write of, for she seems to have layers and layers, sweet smelling and yet polite and yet . . .
Thank you for the poem of your comment, Beth. I like your and yets: I think she, elusive she, is all about and yets, the rest of her always around the corner...
swung by to say hello and had another read - missed the fevered brow first time around, maybe she is a sister of the sun? Thanks for the drop in at EDF. Scary stuff when you leave the nest and fly in front of strangers but I always have liked to sneak a little closer to the flames. My feathers got ruffled a bit but not singed.
Dee: I'd say it was a swell debut, all things told. Nothing in the story stopped me, but the Old Spice. Poor chica. One of your many strengths as a writer was all full display: the narrative voice: knowing, chuckling, compassionate, gritty narrator peeking in - and commenting - on it all.
You've successfully transmitted so many sensations to us with this poem, my senses are now more alert. In a way, it was like a cup of coffee :)
Patchouli and clementines belong together. At least in my memory. With the complement of Rodrigue's Blue Dogs (and thanks for the introduction, by the way), this was an intriguing sensory game - made me happy to play along.
Ms Mood: Hola, ArcherGirl! Time's a-nearing! My resident Sag-son is still in the middle of his Birthday Week. Actual day this past Thursday, but he'll be celebrating right on through his grandparents' visit tomorrow.
So good to hear from you. Glad I could provide the caffeine. Namaste, amiga.
Anno: Glad to point you down CajunDog-way. I'm with you on the clementine/patchouli collision, too. Good memory you have there, hermana.
I'm drinking smokey tea and thinking of you.
Good for you, MizLee. I'll bet it's the perfect day up your way for such doings. Perfect day down here, too, for that matter. Blessings to you, Sister Eyes.
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