More meta-drivel (or not). The poetic residue lives on.

Inspired by the poetic residue I discovered in my sketchbooks, I’ve taken to writing more frequently lately. For the past few days, after I crawl into bed I’ve doodled words into my “to-do’s” notebook driven on by my state of hypnagogic delirium. Here are the results.

Some are silly, some are elegant, and some are odd. I like some quite a bit more than others (I’ve placed my personal favorites in bold), but as I am an advocate for full artistic honesty (including disclosure) and considering that I am just as passionate about process as I am product, I’ve reproduced the past two evenings’ worth of writings below in their entirety. I consider each stanza its own entity.

an incomplete cadaver makes no sense to a vacuum salesman, and wichita
won’t support the enterprise
so let’s take down all the curtains and blast off into the millenium with arms, hugs, and kisses
And perhaps a bottle of scotch and scrubbing bubbles.

“Pull that pork harder!” hewned the rotted rancher, “They’ll believe it once they see the warts.”
Buckets of them, brought up from riverbeds where zebra clams
eat their tea and crumpets, and the walleye post their vacancy signs.
“Taxes are my middle name,” the gentleman thought to himself,
before he loudly slurped down the egg of emu and its accompanying bladder.
This is the life of a salesman.

Bleak and beyond the length of the brow, quintuplets dash and dare to death;
in fame, fortune, or urethane—
counterintuitive, rancid or fresh.
It’s smelt and dealt with chivalrous rabble-rousing gifts and cantankerous carbuncles.
Let’s sit down for some clam chowder, shall we?

Bleeding ostriches and player pianos, all up for sale in this townhouse.
Once a magic mountain fantasy,
they danced in between the lines, catching fairy dust and foxes.
Bless their hearts, for leaving this,
and bliss will wave behind them.

Curl your fingers, then your toes,
bracing for the future; left and right,
we wait for wonder to arrive.
I’m not alone in this endeavor, stealing grins and pumping hearts.
Give and gift, they all adore them, fresh dandelion tarts.

Too bad the windows don’t open,” the shouted up through the floors.
Stairs don’t tell this boy what’s shakin’, but Kentucky drivn’ through
is waitin’ for its man. My man.
We been here and there is for a treasure.

Turtlenecks and twisted swan necks,
we capture then reach, without a mere dash of salt.
Unsavory futures taken away and bureau drawers unscathed open,
sliding out and bashing as the bats burst out and holler to their brothers,
“No bears are out tonight! No bears are out
tonight! No bears are out tonight!”

Flippant threads all-’a'-dangling from a hand outstretched,
with tendons torn from love and sacrifice, and wooing the lovelies from the inside out.
Craftily it rides the strip, from belly out to sky,
and then we feel the strings connecting, pulling
us through the shutters, and
drifting into dark soup and stars.

Tuxedos burst with bulging pockets, donkeys
tripping, and tusks embezzled. “What a dandy!”
With all that hair, who wouldn’t be? Shucks,
let’s sell all the flamingos and buy some cake! We’re going out tonight!

Right ’till dawn and dusk unite in one
hug of light’s affections. Unfortunate
that such delights are only seen and felt by the blind and curious,
listening for the right moment to pen their eyes, and
picture what’s inside them. Clasps, patches,
pouring love, and sweetness, all flavor the time,
and sighs are the universe’s welcome.

After tripping down the stairs,
all august and gilled with deuces, no man,
or cultured friday reader dares to paint these streets.
Quilted bears and pantyhose, everywheres. that’s
the catch of the season. Sell it while the crop is hot,
and ripen when your keg is cool—
no buttresses to spare in this old union town;
we’ve got spruces everywhere!

Carbide boron plates and clutter, tickling her
reservoirs. I’m no idol worshiper or wheelbarrow butcher,
I just prefer to take the quarter-horses home. Roast beef.
Roast marshmallows. Chicken lickin’ toast.
Twirled.

The best of the best, idolatry free Tuesdays
reign supreme. Playing ball doesn’t capture that,
only a little bird in the window.
Whisper this to me, mad starling,
“Hush, and pick the berries while they’re ripe!”

Curtains over nothing – the lead lids fall and
droop without them- and I’m a failed wrestler.
Bring me breakfast for dinner, sliding lines, and
beavers don’t know any better. Too bad we won’t.
Too bad we won’t.

Sunday brunch, stand back Stravinsky!
ROTC chariot and drenched shores‚ leave room
for the peach pickin’s — Yeah let’s think;
so marshall men, and venus scabies, pink and
tickled blue.

Juciferous blotch and mallegheny marsh-
mallows, the tinklin’ torches me timbers.
Break the fast and join the ranks,
we’re all burrowing together, fixin’
for a pitcher of Sunny Delight when ma
comes home.