Aarrrgh! as Experience
Fer Chrissake, Just â€˜Cos You Donâ€™t Dream in Colour
Doesnâ€™t Mean We Canâ€™t Be Friends!
Forlorn/ in a cloud, she glidesÂ right past the Xerox machine, far
away, & off to a large, kind of dank urban metropolis. Bongos,
der Bingle, Jo Stafford. Good times.
Black bandannas, interrupted narrative, neat/ as a new pin.
Bronzed historical markers. The Stork Club, a sharp crinkle
of blueprints, the rattle/ of a taxi.
And I just wish, I just wish I could remember the curve of your
cheekbone, Rosalyn Drexler. Fax machines, rubyfruit jungle.
Harold Lloyd, fireflies. Bright lights, big city.
An… an amusing city– a little humid– of near immaculate beauty
and unparalleled fluorescence, snapping, humming, crackling
like, y’know, that, thatÂ copier she left behind.
Blue/ plastic dinette set, framed newspaper page of that Freedom
Train of 1947. Waiting/ in Lancaster station. Ben-day dots.
Espresso, the Sunday Arts section.
Paper cuts. Neosporin.
So, I mean, I mean: sheesh! a reverie could blithely sing to the future,
or trench warfare… a/ cloud in 2014, or last Easter, or an STD rash
in any inglorious month of Sundays.
Thrifty to a fault, sunny & upbeat, she brushes the hair from
her eyes, prepares lobster risotto, drinks responsibly, loves found
poetry, mahjong, declarative sentences. And starfish.
A dream/ might refer to an imagined past or a cancelled sit-com
or even, oh, say, a rejected design for a Post-war KelvinatorÂ® .
Colorized movies. Love, hope, art as experience. Doppler radar.
Screeching owls, moonbeams, woodcuts. Kate Chopin.
Free ringtones. Homina, Homina. [soft & far off: beginning riff
from O Superman] P-P-Pa-Pocketa-pocketa.Pocketa….