INTERVIEW WITH A SELF-DEPRECATING ADULT.

I’ve deprecated three times today

that’s about average

according to my Provider

self-loafing, she says, leads to dents in self-confidence

but to avoid that I should let off some self-steam

via flagellation? I ask

(picturing brisk pennant & maypole) (ahem)

but she’s twisting her head Noo noo noo

I don’t get wrangled

but sometimes I think of deprecating my Provider

you know like scrawling “Provide Err”

under the bridge w/ spraypaint or sharpie &

sitting in the hedgerow sober

while the tintype cloud-pack calculates rain

[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #6. Too, see: The Great Scansion of 2012.]

INTERVIEW WITH A PETTY LARCENY SUSPECT.

Love is a minimalist construct, granted—
with its “ensuing domestic bliss” &
I could be in love even w/ a heavy person
here in the day slam mulching my options
I’ve matured—OK! OK!
do the two salad dressings come w/
the fishloaf or the hot baloney
b/c I’ve got the scurvy & needs mount
all right?—so I’ll cop to the mint patties &
I’ll cop to the activator & mango butter
(those were not for me!) (I owed a pacific person)
but the duffelbag of STIM-U-DENTS
were a gift from my dentist—hey man
it’s a matter of life & breath!


[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #5. Too, see: How to Read Poetry (for Dummies).]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VICTIM OF A JELLYBEANS PRANK.

These were pebbles popping
the floor near Orange Julius?
no & once a bean got lodged
in my support garment I forgot
about the kids laughing on 3
en route to the restroom I’d find
a bean in my pocket—a bean
shook out of my hair—a bean
floating in my macchiato &
in the stall I moved the bean
around my support garment good
I seized myself & seized myself
a gourmet sizzling cinnamon
so near & yet sweetly elusive!


[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #4.]

INTERVIEW WITH AN OPHTHALMOLOGY PATIENT OF BASHAR AL-ASSAD.

I come to palace w/ complaint of myopia
but Assad, he order root canal, instead—
“Root canal!” he shout behind ear &
rip open door to corridor where men in fatigue
crash into each other “oof!” & “dumbkopf!”
their paper like firework explode into air
then fluttering down to earth like autumn
Assad is gone many hour but I sit in chair
(rocket make Mach One near windowpane)
until new morning when Assad return w/
nurse & hammer & plier & elephant bandage
he have cinderblock dirt on face, on forearm
I tell him “myopia better!” I cover eye &
read imaginary chart—I do this for my life.

 

[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #3.]

INTERVIEW WITH A CHILD IN TIME OUT.

Dad says that Time Out is punishment but on TV
when a coach calls Time Out the players hug &
the scrubs run onto the court for, like, 30 seconds
I observe this to Dad then he sends me into Time Out
now I have to stand near the record player where Dad
has propped up an album called Time Out—ha ha—
very funny—by a guy named Dave Brubeck Quartet
Dad closes his eyes & gets all rubbery when he plays it
& when he plays Time Out, Mom gets all rubbery, too
I try to get rubbery like Mom & Dad—to be a family—
but Dad sends me into Time Out w/ no rubbery option
so I try to think deep thoughts, you know, like should I
dookie in the peepee toilet at school & show everyone &
it must look like I’m practicing in Time Out b/c uh oh!

 

[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #2. Too, see: Be a Professional & Come Out Swinging]

INTERVIEW WITH A MAN FOR WHOM HYPNOTISM HAS FAILED.

I admit: I love reruns of West Side Story b/c

The Sharks & The Jets snap their fingers enough times

for 100 hypnocrits (like me) to awaken . . . changed,

but no. I linger beside battery-op clocks

await the flashing red eye on a smoke detector or

gorge myself on the dink/dink of a turn signal (on the bus;

the 96 local; the same driver w/ a fondness for lefts;

he phoned the fuzz & I implored them to ratchet my wrists

w/ cuffs; I welcomed arrest & re-arrest; but no;

“Scram!”) Into which set of mythologies can I hope to arise?

Maybe something like the regal marches of Albert Ayler

b/c nobody could disprove his godliness (asleep, there,

in the East River) or the one/nil metronome of

kids teeter/tottering in the park, I should be an optimist


[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #1. Too, see: Blogpost to a Young Poet.]
 

IT DOESN’T HAVE ENOUGH OF THE MENACE.

The Two Lovers of the A-peck-o-lips

I’m playing the new hand game, “Rock, Mingus, Emoticon,” where Rock rolls down cliff on top of Mingus, Mingus punches Emoticon in winking eye, and Emoticon makes Rock weep enough miracle water for all the parched wandering tribes. No, Exodus is not part of the X-Games, Silly, although Exodus will be a demonstration sport in the next Olympics. It’ll be just like the Discus Throw—people running around screaming, chased by charioteers. The song “Go Down, Moses” now inspires people all over the world, whereas it was first sung by Moses’ wife, after the couple repaired to their tent, for the night. By contrast, the Alan Lomax Field Escalator Recordings have captured a variety of obscure American escalators, discovered, as it were, creaking and groaning, only through word-of-mouth, out behind the tool shed, often delivering nobody anywhere, often delivering anyone nowhere, creaking and groaning, out behind the tool shed, only through word-of-mouth. When broadcast over the Ocean, the Alan Lomax Field Escalator Recordings led to a dramatic increase in Whale Jumpings. By that, we mean loop-de-loops, not gangs of rogue orcas setting upon sponges and kayaks and sushi. The saying “Love Thine Anemones” comes to mind, but it doesn’t have enough of the menace. I wonder, sometimes, if I’ve been secretly hypnotized, as I wind up running the darnedest errands—standing in a rooftop swimming pool for hours or taking a cab to the opera—does that kind of crap happen to you? I came-to, this latest time, clutching several copies of a dubious screenplay, Moses & The Burning Bush, smack in the middle of a casino. So, I did what any secretly-hypnotized citizen would do: I played the slots. At first, I was getting “Lemon / Mingus / Orange” and “Cherry / Mingus / Grape” but then I started getting closer, “7 / 7 / Mingus” and “Mingus / Mingus / Bar.” When, up and down the aisles, all the machines bore the same combination, and it was like they’d gotten hit (in the jackpot) in their souls, and it was Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus.