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08 September 2006 @ 05:29 pm
Like secrets of pond water and books with half a jacket.  
I just exhaled instead of inhaling my--
Twice, each time clearly bewildered to the cause and the why of this dusty bemusement-now I am listening to the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and it is so hushed and sacred and glittery, like snow, like confusion and quiet glee, darkened rows and well-placed hands---and instruments, louder until----catching caught --- like old women with puckered faces and finger- painted lipstick– spoke so fondly of robert louis stevenson--
but gliding surely and eagerly into a comfortable nook, could be more spent, if only if she’d realized the benefits of dehydration when it comes to mass produce, bulking up our world, our hearts, our shopping carts--

Hollow, eager voices chime sweetly and twist festively above our heads as bawdy mistletoe couples eager to dance or look afar or yawn–throw popcorn -into other yawning, merry pits with teeth, always the teeth catching--
--of sleeker-than-silver twines hoping and chiming, charging at us with glitter and capable-bodied slashes of light--
and the long, graceful mystic-legs drop neatly one then slide one below and below----

all that time I really lost to a world so much louder and slower than yours. Who’s?
I can’t say.really,
I don’t remember a telling, or a showing afternoon, or even late morning,( early morning is for the moribund and uncouth dwellers of the night....in the filth of the moon’s grey garments! )

....louder until it echoes-echoes-choes-choes–osss-oss-s...

sans balloons, we savor the swiftly economized stature of no-longer-an-event.
candles, lah-tee-dah toys and--
its so filmy and I can hear our feet, excuse me, my feet, swishing but not like my other flash-vision of a swish--
half frozen nantucket nectar left where it was seen last and shoo’ed into public trash cans mouthing “thanks” as we walk away, looking back, just to see–shoo’ed and shushed by that woman with the kid who follows directions– we all swear they don’t exist..
Altogether not distasteful.

this cellophane-clicking shutter, tearing up, and shuffling distant and quiet through sniffles

and fine citizen profiles turning into foreign gobs of oil paint, clipped grass, lingering sizzle of Big Red in the space between my nose and your chewing...
stiff at first like a vast deck of white 8 by11 ,
you present your times new roman with tastefully used italics for voice----love map for a cast morning in venice but without the budget—or the music.
No bands. .no voice, droning or moaning, shrieking and croaking
no more than 3:30 minutes...

--- and lost somewhere under the, the stuff on your floor...you know, where you stubbed your toe..

I and we always forget about the audience that cares-


I silently and deliciously mouth, “watery-foam-puke-green delite- 6 0z per thin-lipped susie or marie, who’s she gonna be?...”

hold, wait, too much eyebrow, squirming. And raising me one. (Always, perpetual meet-and-great twinkles of certainty in this world, you find em at the card table, better than sex, they say, and without the---....) Chuckle chuckle, ears burn red. Not mine. Someone who shouldn’t be distracting this..me...
someone who should fold sweetly away, into the rain for the one chance at ever experiencing pure, gleaming .....
. --prepared since summer of...?

” into the fan, i repeat, speak only into the fan. I don’t have to tell you that never gets old.”--

And cheaper than all the surgeries you wish you couldn’t afford to have but took back home, to the office, then with you at your dentist- that’s supposed to be funny, cause....well.....

But, crackling cereal and frogs following us like dogs, we were shrieking exhilarated because it all felt so familiar and the embers-splashing full and we knew it all like our merry christmas-wide smiles masticate grossly

puckered, wooly shakespeare-like, she swore, but..more...moist.
--because he got down on his bad knee with the brandy half-poured, special, a holiday-red promise, promise of a kiss, (hell, I’ll just take the bottle if it means I can go home–)

but instead I read...thought, hoped, blinked , blinked again and that was your cue to shift and switch, the parts that stood out, the parts that mattered, no don’t worry about details, details become like odds and ends of a not-quite-teetotaler’s wine cellar

See? I could have sworn the sky even winked, the left-behind wrinkles are like elephant skin, see?
. freezing into a chopped-block of a very scaly, crumbly but-not-sweet bellowing
slitherinthesky all the way, ohm’s... of nature, baby...

-enter top hat-stiff-grim.grim as I am
grimly cementing four gone-through-the-drier game pieces onto squares drawn just now--
-- and holding VERY still for all the nice ladies, using your supervision of fierce costumes and
ahhhhhh– and


Some other person besides me on this arthritic log–

. Begging for a square inch or a baker’s dozen..–ohhh, I really don’t know But, you know, the one I got last time?It was so good- I didn’t think about ice cream the same way for like half a month-- an now, if I see it I put it smack in the center of my vision, I use my filth(it was christened “intimate”) to beam down, weave and divide into multitudes of fat, streaming light. To fade like sunning tissue paper–or OR thanatos’s gloat, (no silly, not GOAT) too plain in the sun, better, BETTER in the grey lust of dawn...

---balancing for fun on a boat to nowhere.

bowing our legs and whipping off hats already rippling, playing catch with the wind......fin.

I catch a glimpse of you now- and-- now–and--- last week I would have never thought you up--

only tonight does Tchaikovsky’s Love Theme gleam too brightly even without surround-sound, or something.
and I duck and giggle immediately, thinking about other things; this morning and what to write at the beginning of this poem.
-poem?-


Suddenly something caught his eye–
–and it was just a cat crossing the grass.
Flute –hip–Flute –hop
Commands the army of four
or more-
-or alone
I am–
but one.

Freshly scented like what Florists would fantasize about if fantasies could be bottled and gently, finely, misted.? Apron strings plead
Little boys see and eeee
and howl behind their seatbelt on the ride home from,
from

(Thinking about the editor’s knife in the too-long thought-mumble-confession of a highly-aroused plane. It goes out like a squalid melting confession, a rasping last wish fumbling as though it were a fish--
--with very dry lips)


but always going to
Like pinging coins, excitable spare change spare hope- glory train of copper--
spent with the charismatic tremor of blinking and parched lashes

wandering up the tree, that squat and senseless foolish mound of rings and screams.

Gobbly-jelly clues and catch-alls, that’s all a pond has to offer.

And that half-armed book? Turned in on himself and eventually all anyone ever knew for sure was that books should never stay silent for too long because once a word has settled into its own shadowy spine, into flaky, flaky bits of light-beam fodder,
the rest, all of them, fling uselessly, in rubber-band style boing slowly first an arc, then only a flash, replaced by a more likeable emotional projection with greasy tint of cheap remorse.

Sad. But not really, like jim bean all tuckered out in the gravel bits of early morning. Better him than me.

Words forgotten like sad bats when reduced-to-soggy-black ink clots of meaning
that was what it was
when it was allowed, but now
crumples like an allergy-ridden agoraphobe the first time she caught sight of a new jersey shopping mall through the car window framing her silent, determined husband, his ghastly curled lips and sagging sense of ...significance...

(“there is nothing left for me in this world” she swore), too aware of the grime left stuck to all the ridges and bumps,
once love evaporates
we can only
depend on mud
and the fruits of our labor.
 
 
 
laugh_scream on September 9th, 2006 03:47 am (UTC)
ohhh...
i adore chad pennel.
sorry i've missed you the last couple weekends.
i think that i will call you tomorrow.no wait--
i KNOW that i will call you tomorrow.