Whither Bernice, My Bernadette…

Whither Bernice, My Bernadette,
& All them Bernadettes D’Antan?

by cocteau
Sashaying. Whiskbrooms.
Stunt kiting, windmills… some osage.
Thyme & pantoum. Boom-Boom, Boom
BOUM! Hooker & Heat. Hot chocolates par-
O! Listen to me:
when/ or if, you are waiting at a long red-
light, how long can one reasonably remain alert?
And I mean a really long red-light. And,
like, I mean– Orange
sky-is-falling alert? Know I’m sayin’?
Rain is falling. That makes a difference.
Quelle différence. Her hat rolled over into a cor-
ner & her mouth fell open, and she beamed/ and I
pulled off her frock. O! Satellite radio: dream of
a new & wondrous post-war Amer-i-ka.
Glow of plasma tee-vee’s
& imitation bacon bits and even/or also Swatches.
Cooking shows and cable and Masterpiece
Theater. Leading edges of fronts, hot riots & Nixon
coming. Pecos Pete; cold fusion. Rubáiáti.
Miasma, melisma.
Stop signs, partitas and/ motets re-
cline those curling Colorado highways.

0 thoughts on “Whither Bernice, My Bernadette…

  1. Leaving the questions of pulchritude behind, we find our hero,
    behind the wheel of a fully restored 1958 Ford Anglia, modified at no small expense to drive from the left.
    he’s parked at the last remaining Dog n’ Suds, washing his nostalgia down with barrel fermented Root Beer, before going to the drive in to see Mark of the Devil. Nahmean, homie?
    cocteau: Ohne Gleichen!

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