Hemispheres of Huck Finns
Hemispheres of Huck Finns
Drawing and poem by Smokey Farris
How weird wearing sweaters like space gorfs
High above orbital pumpkin fields.
I am hypertensive, an olive in a jar of skulls and empty bras.
Hemispheres of Huck Finns brain,
Straw hat filled with seeing electrons
I am afraid of Paul Good nineteen seventeen seventy six.
I’m afraid of the liquid beauty.
She as in liquid beauty is a roaring sea heart beat.
She’s a cat Big giant yellowish cat lion tigress who makes me a demon.
The ultimate revenge upon revenge, huge heaven kung foo bonds.
A Stadium galaxy for all the strawberry beauties. Cloudy fantasies.
The jealousy competitiveness ribbon, exited scotch tape.
Smooth ribbons of medicine dance, Blue now. Mem hammer.
spinning and twisting trunks of electic yellow wood.
in a loose new vortex of turning feet and catlit stances.
The windy giraffe neck is dreamy from the blush of prostitution.
The child god dances for an audience with moth wing quilts.
Gills in the war wings, heat flaps, and waving water.
A rhythm of hanus gadgetry fills the streets where real men lay their still and afterlife bones, after glowing.
They once danced like blurred images between fog and evening moths. The disrobing of the dry and dusty wings was written into a song and a fiberglass flower arrangement of fiber-optic skins and veins of pure laser energy. The force of the heavenly god turned into fighting whores and their hideous and heavy blue shadows. The windows whirl breezes around the sleeping beauty night shirt and the flung carpet magic. Her jealousy was a strong tattoo session, the tattoo, kitty vittles and moldy underwear. Her jealousy was handled from within by a black cloud and a christian vision. Christ came to save this flood victim and we all care and sell ourselves to the sun its magic she wants to be this good brown woman, it was her fate The keys are in death voices. The monkeys have the lock, just talk to your self, in veins, intravenously like and apricot tree blaring fruit in preeminent spring.
The last line could be telling us the poet is shooting up: talking to himself “intravenously.” Which accounts for the punctuation and grammar non sequiturs, and disconnected free-flow imagery. But let’s say he’s on a trip like Huck Finn’s, between the hemispheres, globally and cerebrally. The poem starts out in the first person, who eventually reveals he is afraid of something beautiful, feminine, feline “who makes me a demon.” Reads as fear of sex intermixed with competition and revenge from heaven and as the poem shifts to the second person–taking us all along–eventually Christ, wrapped up in a jealous woman. Sounds like the nomadic Huck is poling himself out of a bad trip with some female who embraces on-shore conventionality. Which is what each of us on this site is doing, however the gender goes.