For Aspirin in the nearby peaks I see the great parakeets of Antarctica. They came to these shores for more opportunity to escape playing golf. They thought she would be a boy. As in the real Everest is always the Everest without oxygen. Yet never was she closer to me more far away than now.
Impressions she left of her behind in the sand. The exotic pot not coming from here, but from my First Place at County, I crook my left leg into my uphill lie. (Whenever I see water damage on ceiling tiles I think of a pregnant angel’s water breaking.) (Beginning now you too?) The bunker lip demands an open blade.
If you hear “Fore!” cover your head and cry “Uncle!” (too late). Or, putting yourself in my place – how can I tell? – what do I know? – remember to untighten your grip (it's the planted foot that relieves the thumb that saves the stroke that spares the organizers from calling action). Grounding your head is a foolish penalty. When swinging through strike a shallow knuckle behind and leave a two-fisted crater. Keep your wrists locked (don’t let them go). Play for the plop and the roll.
“Peace of mind, anybody?” Last night found frozen to the night before, her toothbrush on the seat, still warm.
(Following the rash of underground seizures, poetry tables resumed their pre-revolutionary levels. Unfortunately, the subterranean maps from way back then were likely scatter-brained and eased in swamps.)
It's Saturday and not Saturday I can't forget, our dotted signing disconnecting you from me and every check we ever bounced together. (The lines I chalk around my dreams represent a slosh of drinks.) I bop into the ship's head and it's like trying to pee a thousand leagues beneath the sea. I push so hard my eyes matter. Then my head depressurizes and I puddle to the floor like another screwed putt. My prostate leaks the tears leftover.
The bets are piling up against me. (Sometimes the only way to change the flow is to toss in a second pair of dice.) My eardrums cackle like Frank Sinatra at the Cosa Nostra table snapping his fingers for Seventeen, Red. The pregnant message is the litmus paper. (The divorced universe in sugar panic?) Make one immortal move, and from that point on your entire life comes back to haunt you.
No, things tend not to turn out. This is the natural inclination of things. Nothing can mean anything, no more, and perhaps – FOLLOWING THE EXPANSION REDSHIFT PARADIGM – ultimately less. When hasn't it cost more to bring a baby to term, street prices, than to have some faceless nobody knocked off? Somewhere along the line nature took a bad one in the spine. Entropy. Like the news being less and less the news, and more and more the news about the news. Think of America’s misty Hallmark infatuation with its men and women fighting together overseas. Think of DICKENS MEETS McLUHAN:
“Can I have another bowl of gruel, Sir?”
“Of course! Just be sure to save some room for ice cream!”
“In my bowl, Sir?”
“No, silly, save room in your stomach. For dessert we have extra dessert plates!”
Like some Second Lieutenant annoyed with me as Chaplain, Sergeant Nanley worries about our urine samples. “Sir, are you trying to tell us that you have no niacin or fruit pectin in powdered form for the men?”
(I understand that Nanley now works in a depression-proof business: he's behind the ice cream scoop at one of our nation's leading chains of prison kitchens.) “Son, you're talking drive-by radio myth.”
The long row of embarrassed men rearranges into a semi-embarrassed, full half-circle. (In place of brain receptors that default on payments, my unit has brain deceptors that receive bribes.) “Piece of cake, anybody?”
entertains in a Celtic setting under the Alps outside Munich (Landkreis Bad Tölz – Wolfratshausen). He originates from Fort Smith, Arkansas (if not Ytterboe at St. Olaf, plus Granite Falls). He is an all-around print and web media pro, ghostwriter/copywriter, old school Exquisite Corpse contributor, and the German-English translator of numerous films and books. Hire him: “Have Laptop, Will Travel.” Visit him: www.reishus.de.