birthday blues, allegro and dirge /  8.22.

my-o-my. Is it Cantaloupe 22nd already?

my son, mea culpa! mea maxima culpa!––

sure, I can be faulted, but how time zips!

and wouldn't you know on your special day

the orange-tinted virus is hitting the airwaves,

Los Angeles is under fire and needs a drink,

Afghanistan’s a dusty mess, (unlike last month,

––you know, all grassy, fragrant and cheerful)

and I hear through the grapevine, congressional

republican knuckleheads are scheming an initiative

to pollute the atmosphere of Venus!

what a whacky buncha cocoanuts. I mean,

the place is pretty much screwed as it is, right?

well...what's left to say?

proud.   #birthday #dirge #fragrant #pizza

                   Bruegelville

there’s a blue, red-trimmed chancery cursive

neon sign high above the curtain. the sign’s perfect;

a perfectly glowing neon sign which would look good

hanging behind the bar in any downstairs rumpus room,

not one intermittently flawed, buzzing letter,

the first clue that this was going be a bad dream.

the curtain opens to turmoil.

dense, frantic crowds fill the arena, and

protruding from the water, a fish-head swallows

what appears to be the mechanical leg of a whole man!

below, there's something which appears to be pole fishing into

what could be interpreted as the iris of an eye, filled with horrified folks,

and toward the upper left of the arena there’s an ornament of sorts

stuffed with tortured, naked figures hanging from an inverted cone

bending by the weight of it, and this mesmerizing unpleasantness

sits atop a huge goo-goo eyed head regurgitating human and animal life!    

the dream’s soundless, but I’m sure there’s screaming.

a central figure of a woman is seen running, stage left,

who has sacked what appears to be kitchenware, which

could be classified as: "her own", "looting", or "the spoils of war".

most disturbingly, near dead center, a bare-ass woman,

bends at the waist, carrying a boat upon her back–– 

she's grasping the port-side top rail with her left hand and in her right,

a worrisome type of what is later defined as a constipation tool. 

the boat's a sort-of smack, keel-less, perhaps a small troop carrier, four combatants

on board, and all four tucked inside a bubble sitting amidships,–– and she's pooping                                      with the aid of the intrusive constipation tool, dark, defensive waist-matter upon

the townsfolk below, who are storming the gates of the stone fortress!  meanwhile,

toward the right of the arena, we find a 16th century colander (no holes, yet) of armed

soldiers, who appear to be fending off "we the people" under a flaming sky, then

upward still, the burning's complete with frightening Whoville-type creatures,

and one of them is doing handstands upon the skeletal remains of the fortress!

I’m at the edge of reason, but

I awaken to 21st century aroma therapy and the scent of pancakes.

     

                  

                    the visitor

departing on the westbound train 

I remain noncommittal

so there's not much to unpack.

they’re old friends,

now on South University, first floor,

higher ceilings, and easier access to work,

as I've been informed with their invitation.

I’m on top of my game

rearranging the contents

of a temporary space

with an aptitude at making adjustments

to stabilize a shifting point of view.

geography took the measure of us,–– the years

punctuating the measure on their arrival at the depot.

her hair is tightly cropped, greying

in arcs behind her ears. he wears

a powder blue, open-collared oxford.

three days to the eastbound train.

dinner's at six in the small

dining room just off the kitchen.

a young, dry red is poured by her husband

with a sincere sense of hospitality, and the sound

of her voice is gracious, and lovely, still.

it's three of us at the table who are older,

three of us who have decades of stories to tell.

genuine contentment surrounds the table,

and surely they'll ask me to stay another day.