Wild Poets - Avatars

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The Journals of Wild Poets

Written by David Wright

Thursday, 04 March 2010 16:45

Spanish olives rolling down the watered hall, youth like sonic ha ha's curling around the catsup bowl, in for another ride; whack, stone cold kitchen kissing scene rolled up, bottled and tossed out to the middle of now here, floating long rides on aquatic, subterranean roller coasters, all done up in the most time, penny for her mind bribes, scaly carnie folk, buttered up and exposed from under the frock, the wet sock, the bearded clam, country swamp bumpkin handkerchiefs tied to the waist of a skeleton women, tethered to her five children; some bodies just have to eat- on the road, over that witches rainbow, on the train, burning Zeppelins serving ice cold swastika aperitifs, a holocaust at home.

That's when the yokels yell 'yum a yum' and when the learned parcel a package to the nearest pay a poet fund: checks payable on down the line... My veins are turning tattoo by ghost atavistic uncles forming my family crest and honor insignia across my right, fat shoulder.

Daddy needs shirts, mommy wants shoes. Sister could use birth control, brother knows the empty hand.

Capturing the firebugs and stuffing them through the slit in the car window of my uncle-aunt-mom-dad's infamous green pinto, and then going into my room, the living room/master bedroom, to feed the birds. Cockatoos and tweety. Little dieing, or soon to be dead, buds of light not made by anything, not even nature: we're born into and die by rules of no rules.

Look who slips out! I'm an eaten ass. I am the right nothing to mix with your coffee and creamer right before you decide to switch to black. Me? Who me? I'm wrecked into the tree around the curve at Burque's Carlise, buying time from my family and certainly never charging poetry fees to the neighbors. Bang, crack. Nuke that, steal it, crisscross your left over, omnium-gatherum time and break the fallacia genie giant from out his bottle to work the field under the Ferris wheel. No fun houses, no mirrors. Give wishy washers jobs at ticket counters, palm reader's bunkum calls. Cleaning the oil that collects between local staff dollars, dimes and quarters. Stuff I back in. Give I a sucker. Send I home for an extended lost at the ears sanitarium and keep it's mouth taped shut so it can hear the 'huh' that rocks the freak turning the weather vane, cool calmed blood, and not poppycock snake oil self induced when it's the 'Up' that finds an identity to use as messenger to madness. Veralius happy with his map of cadavers. Crocodile kumquat martini, please. Potion of the tall hills, straight from the still bong. Recycled, lost teeth and handy man rustler jeans, swimming in the squiggly pond.

We are a linage slow for certain reasons and meanings of words. We prefer to hear 'right' the first time. Drop our jaws. Shoot us twice, straight through with a shotgun. Drown us in the kiddy pool. Blacklist us from the Sunday funnies. We'll come back. We'll rise and shatter soft cloth. When we get fed the healthy pride of lions, not offish propaganda, we'll reinvent and capsize fresh lines of thought evolved from knowing our former selves and coddling our bright, shiny, white family values.

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