MOPP 4

An Uexpected Visitor

Who is that waiting by my door?

Monsieur Rimbaud

Zut Alore!

Where could he have come from

Why is here

Just to pass the time per chance

To give me guidance that I lack

On the road like Mr. Jack

Or perchance to rest from travels long

Inspire my with poem and song

He comes fresh from the Paris Café

He thought he’d just pass my way

And give me regards from one

Long gone

One whose silence has become her  song

Words live on

Rimbaud said

Alive  or passing or stone dead

You eternity is in your pen

Write what you will but write with care

That is how you will be remembered despised or loved

Then Rimbaud turned and walked away

Doomed to go, but never stay

I will miss him when he goes,

Save for the lines of prose

The gentle leaves I turn

In a book he left by my steps

Mr. Rimbaud’s book left with care

Rimbaud’s book upon my stair

Wally Gets Married Without Us

Good by Platteville off to Wally wedding. Verona speed-trap cop, Viroqua liquor store replenish beer and Madtown!! The Whiskey sheepskin snakeskin dancing women too drunk too late to make rehearsal – ol’ Walczak is pissed already flat tire story doesn’t wash. On again Milwaukee bound leaden skies over open fields drumlins corn and meadow another small bar must stop beer out thirsty boys again. Pile of cans on back seat floor clink-clanking into the turns edge of city chipped concrete freeways jammed with Illinois fatheads and farm fresh bumpkins too slow get off. Parent’s house stumble out mom still up fries us eggs off to sleep as snow plummets from dark Wisconsin clouds.

They Called Her Lobster Girl

The lazy lobster girl lounges languidly in the lee of the tree gulping down lobsteritas grasped tightly in pincer like hands and squeezing out lovely lobster babies with fins and swimmeret’s to supply local freak shows and appear on Maury looking for pity and maybe some cash. Lobster girl leers longingly at a large lank lobster boy across the bridge of reality and wishes to mate their spunk and eggs roiling on the ocean bottom mixing to form the first slime of lobster life oozing from the sand and turning into little lazy lobs laying in the shadows for fear of farting fish with gaping mouths that crave fresh shellfish such as themselves when they aren’t eating their own tails. Oh lovely little lobster lady with limpid lime lenses I know you long to lay with lanky lobster lads and love them until they leave or you lop their lingams with lecherous lips and snap off their head as you climax leaving crustacean cadavers capriciously piled on rippled sand bottoms.

The Ize Have It

I been

Analyzed

Vandalized

Hydrolyzed

Murdilized

Scandalized

Supersized

Victimized

And

Unionized

Time to open eyes

Repatriatize

Fertilize

And otherwise

Move along…

Craters of the Moon, ID 1973

Clouds of ash

Follow future footsteps and hang in the past

Jagged lava walls

A fossil of a fiery past juts from clinker strewn earth

The ground still sweats the heat

Wild Indians lived here

What they ate I do not know

Salt brush and Cinders

As far as the eye can see

An unforgiving landscape

Dotted with fragments of crater walls

And tubes made of

Mad molten mud spewed from the gut of the earth

To form a home for those Indians

The first to live in the sewers of Idaho

To comb the land for precious water and food

Pioneer valley

An oasis in the dead landscape

Beaver and creeks

The Indian’s happy hunting ground

Found at last

I do not shed a tear

As I turn my back on this bleak visage

Ne’re will I return to the pitted dead land

Life is to be had elsewhere

This is someone else’s beauty.