. . . she feels the dark / Encroachment of that old catastrophe.
- Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning
God’s inner ear tucked into my back pocket
I am my own chorus:
His Master’s Voice (Wikipedia’d, no less!)
atop a building on Broadway in Albany.
Miles Kind of Blue - Here’s your part. Here’s your part. -
springboarding sidemen
into the modal life. I too
am jettisoned into a riff:
Showgirls cluttering the walkup.
Elizabeth Berkley licking a pole in Vegas -
You can call me Versayce!
Joe Eszterhas dabbing a Latina cleaning woman
who stopped in the dessert aisle at Hannaford
on her way home
arms laden with trance
never to return.
A window seat unclaimed.
Tickets! Tickets!
Next Stop Wonderland
its nightlife of cephalopods
trumping Ledger’s Joker: Why so serious?
But where?
The ghosts of Oliver Cromwell and Philly Joe Jones
stretch out, pharmaceuticals and all.
The Book of Silence awaits your every note.
The woman in the dunes of your dreams
enters the ring for the welterweight Sudoku championship
of the lower 48.
Michael (Let’s get ready to rumble!) Buffer at the open mic.
Pomes Penyeach.
Quickly! Before what?
Ah, the neighborhood food co-op:
Too late to reclaim the bargaining chip implanted in my brain.
I grind my own, she says
and proceeds to pour
as the rest of the story unfolds.
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Nipper
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