ThE FlAmBoYaNtLy PrEtEnTiOuS ImAgInArIuM

ThE FlAmBoYaNtLy PrEtEnTiOuS ImAgInArIuM
oF dR. QuAsImOfo, Or SoOtHiNg ThE sAvAgE gRiZzLy
AnD bI-pOlAr BeArS At A SwEdIsH dElIcAtEsSEn
in PoLyEsTeR aLeSiAn fIeLdS
For Michelle Cann 1962—2009

There’s a tip of the iceberg like a goddess’s breast
fitting you to a ‘T’ in a wet T-shirt contest—and trust me,
you are a goddess among Chiquitas!
The drab wholeness of fragmented mirrors lay purely arranged
puzzled in our ‘lost and dumbfound box’ awaiting a drunk
and dumbstruck outlash of adapter switches connectivity ambling
some lock-smithy option as a useless product sales-persona:
Live in spite of your tiff with God cause the end of existence
is the only time we’ll get the time of day—
Take a number, form a queue, and think of something
to keep your mind from mumbling ‘olio’s’…
Like all the Goth girls and their whimpering
dog-collared boyfriends
camped out at midnight release parties
feasting on block cheese awaiting closet romance.
..It’s double-stick tape on our lava-rock colored glasses
stubbing toes wrapping our minds around the purpose of it all.
Let’s lounge a bit with honeyed tea in the sun-lit living room
of an architect’s home and smash clocks cheating the world—
Breathe in the unknowing and don’t give a shit!
Light the incense and throw another log on the island
fireplace my kindred spirit old soul!
I’ve cut so many corners hibernating joy and sadness
from numerology tarot parties & stress workshop countdowns that i’m a master
of life’s origami orgasms in this effusion of masterless tweed miniskirt
clinging to youth on an ovulating mail-order psychotherapist
who slaves away at rewiring the ‘should-be’.
Psychiatry on Sunday so fit me into a half-truth mold please, before i inoculate the vaccine and catch that bull-honkey disease—
The ailment is often gift-wrapped as the anecdote.
Monday’s therapy brought a sore analogy likening our ability to live life
as if we were a car screeching curves with tires that can only handle certain centrifugals.
The real thing happened a week before so the timing floored me.
There is no fucking plan to a fucking car crash.
Fuck me running and equip me to some design so i know the headache’s worth it at least…someone?
Manage food for the poor who play with wicker
and play the field before you plow the field
in this high/dry smoke-break at fake plastic
shopping mazes coming to a head
on some discount aisle radio.
You love these sad songs cause the lead singer
looks like your lover.
Oh when it rains it pours—fiery fucking meteors!
In the meanwhile, let’s love them to death
and let God sort them out!
..Even if they prosecuted the persecuted
in an eye-of-the-shit-fit-broken-watch hooka-lounge
coming-of-age flick that flicks
all your worrisome boogers into the thrashing wind.
Can we hop-scotch- [and whiskey] from job to job
holding hands and forget about
fucking careers that make you a 24/7 blood donor?
Walk out that factory and just say you can’t do it no more, honeychilde!
Sooner or later we’ll put our finger on it with rapped knuckles!
Brew more tea with honey-suckles cause i think everyone’s lyin’ about their god’s honest truth.
…And yet there is so much restfulness in restlessness.
Give money $$$ to our movement of momentummy ache:
“The whole of Life is playing with fire so when i say i’m pro-choice, believe me—
cause abortion prevents child-abuse!”
What else about life:
1.) Water may be the source but it creates agonizing heartburn.
2.) Life would be a little easier if it were just a bit harder to water-down.
3.) The toughest thing about being tough in this life is to not let your heart get hard and downtrodden.
4.) Plodding to our plots it may seem there is a greater death in life than there could ever be in and of itself.
5.) There’s time enough to hide-for-your-life in the grave.

*I will strap on card-board armor and fight demons in hell to keep the spade from curling close snuggling dirt & box-fanning that spark-plug composition of cremated creation we come from. When it’s my turn, i’ll sleep a thousand years to be awakened by the French kiss foreplayfulness of a Valkyrie in shining armor…and start over.

0 thoughts on “ThE FlAmBoYaNtLy PrEtEnTiOuS ImAgInArIuM

  1. Damnit I love this. And I have a pretty tough time with your work. It’s like the fast pace was persistent but without droning and drying up because of the vibrancy and color in your images, and because of how dense the piece is with quips. Man, there’s a fuck load in here. Thanks for this:
    Let’s lounge a bit with honeyed tea in the sun-lit living room
    of an architect’s home and smash clocks cheating the world—

  2. Thanks Matt. i appreciate the comment. Glad you could take something ‘breathing’ away from this piece. It was partially for a friend who died recently and partially just what was going on in my life at the time–a bit scatterbrained but emotional.
    Also thanks to Editor for generous publication of such material this year and for devoted energy to H&H.
    I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that this year has brought more activity/participation in the form of comments to H&H than i’ve seen in many many a year. That’s a good deal. I think we all grow as people by being part of such a ‘support group for life’ via poetry not too mention becoming better poets/communicators thru the ‘nuts and bolts’ technical advice of our devoted English majors who’ve become more active this year it seems. I hope many more such years are in the future!
    Merry X-mas!

    1. Thanks sir. I love that Kurosawa version of King Lear to death. It’s a personal favorite written for a friend’s wife who passed away. She was one of the few who would read my poems way back when and give feedback and discuss and see the life connections in the words. i miss people like that, people like you. Sometimes it seems like the whole idea of poetry is missed and it’s like people just walk into the gallery (this site), hang up their art, and leave. And there’s a million pictures but noone looking. I’m guilty of doing it and falling into that rut at times but try to give back when i can and re-ignite that passion and love of imagination. How soon we forget, though…

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