lover of the black rose; unfettered and alive; chief archivist of the western slopes; another of Yemaya's babes in the world; Joachim's distant star; boring stories of - glory daze
Friday, February 25, 2011
poem: bubba-lithe
Moammar in his sleek silver travolta disco ultra sheen, acquiescent fetch-bubba of the lithe ruling class: ring your bells, child this ain't your mama's ruling elite, it festers the gruel right out from under your feet: it ain't like you didn't see it comin'. Give Imelda a call, see can she give you some red rubies get you on home to your disco Kansas: this will be the grill you never wished exposed: them derricks ain't exactly toys, boy-toy-grabbin' artifacts of world-gone-by hubbalub the rightwing authenticity of prurient labor, nab the last bit o'honey for the sugar-foxes at the bank - swiss-fried in all likelihood - i'd say the quick exit makes best for keepin the sheen on your shine, boogie with respect to the average fare, it's an inquisition on which you just might want to pass: smokey seconds, stevie's uptight, and you, bloody amigo, best be on yo way.
tamale kings highland queens daylight jack of all the pumice trades china girls in they big dog terrapin teenage dreams up & down the 29 bird-dogging the rest the recompense: in leisure a treasure in gathering troves, tyrone derelict twilight troglodyte samsonite the nested way to gainsay the nylon drippings ask & ye shall she & he & all will be immeasured.
Buster creamed his coffee; his disarray straddled table, on and around, teeming room with conga lines of turbulent creases, thundersnow, vagrant absence. Where in hell's name was solace for the passing jello-minds, frivolous ubiquiters of this brave blue Sunday morn? No chance up against Buster's hirsute avalanche, fire-breathing postmodern daddy in the throes of peace-bondage and mommy-come-lately revenge.
"Space in the next room," said the cup at my elbow. "Beats hell out of this opera."
Next room is the chin-level window-slab: ogle the street traffic, wonder the whys you always wonder. Buildings across the way stripped of logos, mirroring Buster's rumblings in the back room. I'm feeling stripped today, too, John Lee Cadillac-stripped, naked before the judge. I'm guessing Buster's done his own cough-and-turn in front of Judge Judy in recent days. Sagging jockeys in they own shoddy grey disarray.
"Spare me the change, Buster." Judge J always was a charmer.
Just exactly who is the grey lizard back in Buster's rumpus room, scaring off all the Sunday Times debutantes? Sabbath day therapist? Nose-cone attorney? Baker's dozen-stepping sponsor? Innocent slob strangled by Buster's albatross? That lemon yellow v-neck was enough to scare me off, why not Buster?
My Michelin eardrums pop to the sound of "And how does that make you feel?"
Buster seems wrapped up in a soliloquy that signals danger up ahead; he seems hellbent on meting out justice to one and all, when in truth his soul covets nothing more than time on the grey beaches of Port Angeles, if only his spinal fluids could ooze him to another land. God hasn't the rosaries to hand out for this chapel of disquiet.
"Sizzled," says Buster, an adjective I can applaud: his cranium does, if nothing else, resemble a foggy marshmallow. Or blackened pompano, if you squint your eyes enough. I tried both, settled for the fish, all yummy in its uncertainty.
Lemon pledge seems befuddled by the less-than-standard, closed question response. Beyond the ejaculatory color of his own togs, he is bereft of a conversational palette up to the turbulence in Buster's grey breast.
I toddle on: my day is calling, lemoning and sizzling in its own pas de deux. I've prayed between sheets, opened tonsils to night sky, evangelized in poorer straits. There ain't mirror enough in those around me can't make me shiver.
uncertain farms uncertain drudgeries uncertain vagabond loops uncertain the last time you saw mary uncertain the exact time of day uncertain down which aisle uncertain whether you want to uncertain if luther ever bothered uncertain the never-dreaming possibilities uncertain how to fly so high uncertain if this is the really uncertain why you even care uncertain the gods in their siesta'd glory uncertain if presbyterianism carries weight uncertain the price you pay uncertain why you received the honorable uncertain two blushing lips uncertain the qaundary of downsizing uncertain the warehouse on basse uncertain why stevie ever wrote that one uncertain the prerogatives of the nesters uncertain the latitudes of your regal hair uncertain the tropics of capricorn uncertain why harry aped analise uncertain which thousand remains solvent uncertain vamps uncertain blokes uncertain lucy meets ethels uncertain the prince of peace uncertain the delicatessen where last you meet uncertain the pending rhyme uncertain the golden opportunities the cadillac jacks the ypsilanti facts the fashionable vagaries the apologetic bibliographies the ballyhoo'd abnormalities in the trenchant vein . . .
uncertain farms fuzzy taco train tracks up & down the jelly highways vagabond tumeric infernal rondo: i ask at the window the answers say no, as if the delectation is ribbed beyond belief, a casual dress day all down the six, the seven, the eight ways of pity, your western elegance fights down the need to wander, to vary the myths and posters of icarus days angling with fortitude best left unmade: watching the lines piss away the wherewithals, the snaffer blooms, the quenched beasts in their Trojan replicas - save the fifth place ribbons for itty bitty classtime, i've called round the green tangents, you've gone round the bend we've digitized the very best.
fine tooth comb the barely brined accidental tourists in the casbah, bridling the fished- over memories, salsa-sensing the ancient of daze - inquisitive little bastard, ain't he? - digging the laundry out on all the lines, catching fire for the nth time equal parts paisley and rhyme slip in the side door kitchen babies, preservatives at the ready: canning the lesser times, equivocating the do ron rons: casually wear the queries on my sleeve you'd sneer the leavings, too, if the drift was plenty, i go round and round & the answer's still no fastforwarding through the palace guards, tronning the regulators, flouting the fashionable soundings. broadway sez it better, which leaves little room for you & the runt: careful how you raise the tent, this one's twice at the ready & there's no telling how visible the dreams may be: reconnoiter seven times the simple blessings, grieve past the terrors, situate down the wires, cable your travelers, satisfy your last longing till longing completely over- fills. you're the register, you're the blank note, you're the reason Samson never wrote.
guano on the fire meerkat shuffle it's a Sansabelt kinda night the bludgeon tools need a feeding: if you wrestle your demons in the midday, the forecasters ramp the dizzy doodles, answering the full of love cashmere sweaters not a snowball's chance they lay the other way casting calls redeye gravy pinch the bottoms of all they gals in fashionary bliss minuet on the boardwalk the teasing's in the saucy sauce little miss teentown box your socks with nary the second glance falling severance pay egalitarian passion play get that marimba on outta here, the curves say angular, but you haven't guessed them, guessed their weight, guessed the nearest whey, guessed how the ample maples the rest of all your ubiquitous pusillanimous atramentarious wide world economy righteous brontosaurian rusty, crusty mess.
Moammar in his sleek silver travolta
