The Avoidance of Major Streets
From Stuffed Shirt In Love, A Prose Poem Sequence
What a look of reprobation I cast upon that poor translator-the rear view mirror-as a behemoth, a truckish chimera of a vehicle, piloted by a telephone attached to a small head, attempted suddenly to press me into the service of the future from the rear. My own quite serviceable transport-a Peugeot-was selected precisely because it refuses to approach velocities common to astronomy. Nevertheless I rankle under the lash of blows from a horn, and blanche: with one hand supporting a satellite link to another continent, and the other pressing the sounder-what's left for the wheel! From behind comes a surge to the left, and in a moment of residential sacrifice the aggressor ventures into gardening. I am sprayed with hibiscus, with lilies and boxwoods and a leaf blower hastily abandoned. When I have collected myself sufficiently to proceed I see, further down where quiet streets meet the combustion chamber of an intersection, not one but two "best seller" vehicles, all the better for having shared parts. And there, bandy-legged but standing, I spy our Rotarian cum gardener with telephone, digitally probing for insurance. Also, a woman near a similar vehicle similarly engaged in cellular prayer-and this accomplished in spite of a garish tube of lipstick lodged in a nostril. Forgive me; as I pass at a leisurely pace I cannot avoid commentary. Imagine: a single finger sporting a scarf!
Grocery Store Massage
Who are these people who seek out public palpation by strangers! Backwards in a
dentist's chair they are ostrich to the world. Their bread is kneaded to the point of
embarrassment-but not their own-no! They groan and sigh, oblivious, their bagged
victuals defrosting. They rise, finally, staring about as if the world intrudes, while the
glabrous one, wiping his hands, awaits his coin. Why not coitus behind the curtain of a
pup tent? Why not an enigmatic enema, behind a shower stall's translucent drapes?
Greco/Roman wrestling in a vat of mayonnaise? The business of a grocer is comestibles.
Perhaps if a crowd gathered and stood eating, some logic might penetrate the befumbled
procumbent at hand. "The Horror!" they would think, upon discovery. Eating in Public!
What a treat they have planned for me, here at the Mega Mart of Books: A poetry reading. As if I wanted not merely to purchase a book, but to have some cretin read it to me. Better a public execution, preferably with those who never thought to read before they wrote at center stage. Sadness is so sad, the divorce is like a broken heart, and God's jaunty plan includes irony. And the end of this will bring clap to everyone. I should step up and Pound them. Sing the cantos dirgelike with a drum, and suffer their bland expressions as a Kingly scourge, hair shirt worn calmly, without a word. I should question the sniveling one, as to why his courage, brought up to mouth the word "penis," does not extend to whispering "vagina." Why "pus" in talk of illness, but not "cunnilingus" in his drivel about love? And the muscular one, She with the gymnasal whine, who moans in disconsolate refrain, "I'm tired, I'm in pain, but I'm not-finished-yet." Why does she strike the wrong pose in words, when all is spent to achieve it otherwise? Oh there is no end, save hope for contagious laryngitis. I'll to book, and leave them with colitis.