Woman X

Her hair is the color
of infidelity.
Her legs speak
in tongues.
I sit on a stoop
and count my toes
morphing into
an elderly gent
with graying tufts
sprouting
from both ears.
I am spellbound
by her apps.
My shoes
keep switching feet.

Ordinary Strangers

The kids remained unfazed and continued to marvel
at the vicissitudes of sandcastles
spending most of the rest of the evening
up to their noses in the moist sand.
It was exciting.
I don't know why but I began to contemplate
different brands of astringents
especially those considered hazardous to your health.
But not for long.
The pie, identical to those we had drooled over
on the food channel,
emerged piping hot from the clay oven.
Some of course were fortunate enough
to have received them as stocking stuffers.
The studio audience meanwhile was invited
to test drive one of the many ergonomic chairs on display.
Several went for a spin in the park.
The architects did finally arrive though
amid an ensuing rash of rubbernecking
opening their attache cases in unison with a strange drone
unlike any we had encountered in the archives.
We sat down without hesitation
pie etching the corners of our mouths
bats looping erratically overhead
and began poring over the papers
which were supposed to spell out the redesign
of the last quarter movement
but which to our dismay
were found to be sadly missing several critical passages.

On the Line

Neither world-weary nor wise
we took our summer place

on the line
with those already there

with those who would be there
long after we had returned to the Groves of Academe.

Punching in and punching out was our luxury.
It brought the extras -

smokes, six-packs, vinyl,
especially vinyl.

In a pinch, we could, and did,
run to Warbucks.

One of the lifers - an ex-con -
showed me how to operate a forklift.

That afternoon I filled the loading dock
with the blue haze of its electric motor

while he sat among the pallets
with Penthouse.

Two weeks later he was gone,
sent back, I was told, to the pen

with someone else's roll of twenties
in his greasy pocket.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Self-Portrait in a Fotomatic

The canvas stretches out on a chaise lounge.
A palette arrives, loaded with primary colors.
Several brushes, up all night, bristle with anticipation.
Customer satisfaction is not guaranteed.
I deposit my quarters and strike a pose,
then another, and two more.
The mirror chuckles, and begrudgingly reflects my dispassion.
I have, among a half century of vehicles, no truck
with luminosity, no corner on the supermarket.

Rubber Maid

          Rubbermaid for your needs!

I melt at the sound of latex.
I can hardly talk about it
even in the confines of this poem.
I melt at the sound of latex
especially when she bends over
to hunt dust bunnies
under bed or sofa.
They're part of my plan.
The dust bunnies.
I've told them to be fruitful and multiply.
I pay them well.
Right now they're prepped,
ready, and getting antsy.
I know I should be flossing my teeth,
applying cologne, that sort of thing
but I keep fondling pairs of rubber gloves,
burping lids on leftover food containers.
I avoid vacuuming like the Swine Flu
so she has more to do,
more solutions to apply
to my many needs
staving off the maelstrom of depression
I am plunged into
every time her bright yellow cabriolet
with its magnetized sign -
Rubber Maid for Your Needs -
slowly eases out of my cul-de-sac.

RSVP

We jump at the chance to parse the sentence.
Our lives are booked solid.
The words winter storm watch
spring from our lips.
The guests, undeterred, begin arriving
at the appointed hour.
It is as it should be or as it should have been.
A bed trundles from place to place.
There's so much to do.
Place settings take control, and
before we know it, invitations are sent out
to fetch condiments.
It is a cacophonous affair.
The presentation is exquisite.
We line up in single file
amid much pomp and circumstantial evidence.
Outside, a snow plow argues a grade.

Rod Serling

Rimbaud is Not Sylvester Stallone's Persona

Fledgling Bukowskis abound in poetryland
drawn to open mics
like tattered, unemployed DJs
ranting their ravings
to audiences of poeteers
their hard times
their drunken debaucheries
their fornicability
the extent of their twenty-odd years,
sputtering and splattering
on and on
onto their Timberlands
onto their Kerouacian flannel
onto their denim overtures
painstakingly frayed and weathered
by The Gap
transporting themselves
and their gaggle
across blanched, pancake terrains
to the echo-chambered
Coney Island of the mindless
reverberating with pre-ponderings like
How many belches
can be crammed into the lines
I'm drunk
Under the bridge...?

Arthur Rimbaud

Remainders

sold to the highest bidder
by the pound
like a piece of meat

Rain or Shine

At night
practicing the double bass
I imagine Thelonious
and a small group
of pretty, smiling women.

The old woman downstairs
whose husband passed on
about a year ago
dozes
in front of a blaring TV

so loud, I sometimes listen
to the Lifetime movie
casting my own characters:
this one with big hair
that one with long, shapely legs.

She's just returned
from visiting
her forty-something, careered daughter
in Maine.
She hasn't moved her car since.

Her ninety-year-old friend
from across the street
looks in on her
every afternoon
rain or shine.

I lie in bed reading
with a 15-watt.
The frogs in the pond out back
croak
their enjoyment.

Around two
she calls it quits
washes
puts on a frayed nightgown
and slips into her side of the cold bed.

Rosalind Solomon

Pity the Poor Anchovies

Several thousand anchovies beached themselves
this morning, their final valediction filling a hymnal.
Corroborators radioed in
and without hesitation volunteered.
It's no different: too much plankton, too little oxygen
and before you know it, you're sputtering along
on three cylinders
dealing artichokes under the table
trying to make the most of a dry season
despite the side glances of stoop sitters and profiteers.

The shattered dream as we know it will be replaced
by a recipe. Gandy dancers are turning in droves
to the tango. Bubble baths have been drawn with crayon
for those born under the violin's muse.
Yes, it's a far cry from rocket science but so what?
Next time you're let out
why not hopscotch on the starboard side?
Listen to the pauses between acceptance speeches?
You might find it tantalizing,
as palatable in fact as one of those.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Pencil Pusher

I was a pencil pusher.
I pushed pencils.
State-issue pencils.
On-contract pencils.
Generic No. 2 pencils.
Not even noble, yellow, Ticonderoga pencils.
I pushed them
37.5 hours each week
over miles of blue-lined
white legal pads
(formerly yellow
until the State determined that white
was more recyclable
per Directive #90576384-213).
My pencil pushings
were keyboarded
by support staff
and forwarded
to my supervisor
who edited them
beyond recognition
and returned them
reddened
to me for redrafting.
I also shuffled paper
touched base followed up called back
and even did lunch
though I mostly brown-bagged it
at my metal-and-pressed-wood-chip desk
counting my pennies
and the years till retirement
in my three-quarter high
walled cubicle.

The Routine Fill of Days

A yellow schoolbus trundles into view
stopping now to chat with a cat
her mistress elegant in jodhpurs
primping for the audition we all await.

The leaves feel dull
the yellow Ticonderogas sadly blunt
from the last assignment
which most failed to hand in.

The radio plays the only one
he scored for two pianos -
hummingly engrossed late at night in the cold flat
Constanze down the hall

carefully arranging their bedclothes
amaranths filling her hours.
How many variations on eighty-eight
were stuffed into that fuzzy head?

Flurries will soon knock at the door
scrapers masking the alarms
as UPS trucks continue to evade the obvious
stumbling back to their sheds for more trifolded flyers

anticipating the routine fill of days
the reasons why the yellow schoolbus
will not instead turn down this street again
any time soon.

Constanze Mozart

Woman IX

I live on the edge
of her bus stop
and dream of her
hand-me-downs.
My iPad replays her moves.
My eyes caress
her full red lips
and pierced tongue.
I am stuck
in her infinite loop.

Strange Evening #9

Did you wait for that strange evening
when the Joker arrived
with a full house
and the place mats disappeared
out the back door
without bidding adieu?
You've disregarded the charge
to unlevel the playing field,
and now, forgetting the impossible
is impossible.
How many times
has this happened to you?
Being expeditious
to the point of invisibility?
Calamitous faces populate
your dreams
and your days for that matter.
Next time will be no different.
Perhaps a session or two
with a modern day Mesmer
will help eradicate your senselessness.

I Feel Like Sushi

You want me to dance more? I’m like eighty years old.
          - Patti Smith

The gypsy girl crosses over to flag a Tonka
for the trip down the mountain into town.
Crow the cat plays solitaire with dust motes.
Outside, the rain is snowing.
I’m feeding the outdoor wood boiler
in the middle of the squall
while the neighborhood Doppler radar
scans images from my childhood,
my mother and father worrying
the seamlessness of the complimentary copies
littering the culvert, an asbestos solution
to an increasing problem, the jigsaw puzzle
marred when we thought we had it.
The Sunnybrook Farm folks are here
as well,  grappling with the big ones
who have dug in their heels.
I hope this doesn’t bottleneck things out here,
far from the madding crowd,
which incidentally, recently earned a byline,
and featured at an open mic.
I’ve called in for takeout, after seeing
an iPhone 4 ad displaying
sushi search results
on the back cover of The New Yorker.
I've penciled it in as the highpoint
of what, I'm not sure.
Not to complain, though,
but why has the latest edition been pulled?
Is it something someone said?
Why do we have mouths to feed, when,
as Dylan has reminded us
again and again and again,
somewhere in the distance,
there’s seven new people born?

Patti Smith

The Cabinetmaker

          in memory of Corrie Corrado (1907-1994)

The shop was cluttered
with the woods of ages -
maple, cherry, mahogany.
You'd have to wend your way
along the creaking floor
through the labyrinth
of shapes and patterns,
stains and fabrics,
past the machines
router, drill press, lathe,
to the ancient workbench
chisels, clamps, glue pot,
to the cabinetmaker himself -
this small, unassuming Italian
in stain-splattered pants
and workshirt
sleeves rolled up
pockets bulging
with pens, pencils, papers
the endless jotting of ideas
his wondrous hands
unfazed by the clock
quietly transforming the commonplace
into the sublime.

This Trajectory Life #5

This trajectory life matters little to those
who have forgotten the lower rungs of indifference
where over-the-shoulder glances are transcribed,
recorded, and available online for a small fee.

She Wanted to Rewrite the Universe

The leaves kept insisting on separate beds
separate atonements -

a glass-yellow morning
filled with medieval buttercups

etched in gold-leaf
waiting for the next Greyhound

a titmouse announcing the beginning
of yet another rich green garden.

She tweaked the mist
until it matched the stars

gave a narrow berth to mopeds
and to those hand-wringers

blue-veined and bespectacled
that we all know only too well.

She engaged others
despite their protestations

their ejaculations
got them to exchange costumes

share birthrights.
There wasn't a dry eye on the pampas

or in the coliseum
or along the Rue de la Fontaine

for that matter
on the day of her departure.

Tax collectors stood stunned.
She of course shunned the usual

with its attendant confusion and hoopla
instead boarding a hydroplane surreptitiously

to arrive well before the first pinecone fell
bearing her image.

Stella Tennant

Serial Installments

Needlessly complicated instructions mar the horizon
as thousands of green-tailored checkout clerks dance the Polka

to the tune of Paper or Plastic
spiraling the motorcade homeward under a darkening sky.

It is the Autumn of Our Discontent, effortlessly choreographed
in billowing clouds of Sturm und Drang

airbrushed over a graying cityscape
frozen perishables skittering about.

Off-camera, a killing frost fast approaches;
its mixture of pizzaz and supplication

as enticing as eighteen holes
which, come to think of it, is certainly doable

and could be just what the doctor ordered
although with his malpractice suits

he'd be better off assuming a pseudonym
and hightailing it to the nearest dry cleaning establishment.

She Continues to Display a Remarkable Intuition

I can't help but add that this too seemed futile
in the face of the mad dash to the express line
as if dilly-dallying were suddenly last year.
And I suppose I should have told her
about the entrapment of overnighting
about the green intrusions
the upheavals
the seductiveness of certain minor undulations
which though exciting in a WOW!  kind of way
are nothing but brittle stopgaps
shell game hawkers of the worst kind
and about how in a pinch aliases can help stem the tide
despite the evidence proffered by onlookers
who for all the wrong seasons are in it for the dough.
I can see now that she was more interested
in complementary colors
their late night offset arguments
the curious way in which they align themselves
when threatened.
I guess it's not all that surprising.
Perhaps someday she and I will be able to talk eye-to-eye
tweak the inevitable
maybe even make a dent in the bewilderment
that's been following us around
like some pathetic mutt with its tail between its legs.

Say What?

The idea of a list is important to some, I guess.
The bagel baker and candlestick maker, for instance,
proud of the work beneath their fingernails,
thinking it a maneuver, a conceit, an extended
metaphor walking along a country road
without a care, momentarily spared the trivialities
of now. Of course, at some point, they’ll
have to address the keynoter, which reminds me,
may I trouble you to ask if you would kindly
address the envelopes on the laminated table
in the alcove, a chintzy knock-off of the Shaker’s
contemplative craftsmanship unveiled amid
an aural backdrop of Copeland’s Simple Gifts?

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

1:15

and I am in the tub
with books
against the wind
and rain
of a late October
late night
thumbing
others' words
others' poems
hoping
to catch a word
a phrase
shape it
into an idea
coax it
perhaps
into a poem

Vintage Tub II  by Marilyn Hageman

Measuring Distance

I suppose I have Fall to thank
although the leaf peepers have a different take.
Something about true north.
Something about where we're all headed.
My Boy Scouts of America Compass (circa 1955)
points back 50-plus years:
With simple means and using your own
personal measurements, determine ... a width
you cannot walk
such as a river or a canyon.
Canyon? What canyon?
A river? Well, yes, there was the Mohawk
but I got sucked into the ellipsis.
Into the maelstrom between the two words.
What had they left out?
What had been omitted?
I never made it to the Mohawk
or the library for that matter.
Never earned the merit badge.
Returned instead to comic books and Tiparillos.
Never made Eagle.

... therefore iam (bic)

Everything is autobiographical.
          - Lucian Freud

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Detail of Self Portrait  by Lucian Freud

This Trajectory Life #4

This trajectory life, despite evidence to the contrary,
will continue to reassert itself and insinuate itself
into the common denominators of our senses
the dormitories of our insecurities
withering detractors with a sleight-of-hand
reminiscent of those who, following a late night phonecall,
assemble at the bedside of the dying
to accrue frequent flyer miles for a one-way trip to Neverland.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Anonymous Battleship Aground

That evening the bonfire was enough
to light up those moments
that make life easier to swallow.
The gulls of course sang of methane -
their love for the garbage
at the landfill matched only
by the love the Captain expressed
for his two daughters.
He talked freely about his dreams for them.
The daily rag picked up on this
and ran the story as a welcomed change
from its typical reportage.

Woman VIII

She conducts symphonies
and directs traffic
and swallows swords
with arresting delicacy.
Security gives her a headache
and a wide berth.
Cars rubberneck.
Busy intersections wait
for her to cross.

Gumshoes

We kept notes on cases in ledgers
lifted from a paper mill
that caught fire one evening,
some said the owner burned it down
for the insurance,
and we smoked paper rolled into cigarettes
during that baseball-laden summer,
trailing anyone who wandered
into our neighborhood -
a girl with a baby carriage,
an old woman folded over a shopping cart,
a drunk toddling his way to salvation.

We were detectives.
Our detective agency
with telephones made out of plastic spools
from a local knitting mill
was located in my friend's cellar
where the sweet smell of bell peppers
filled the air, and where my friend's uncle
home from Korea with a plate in his head
spent his days working out
with shiny metal exercise equipment
in a pine-paneled back room
off-limits to us.

Of course we used aliases -
Booferous Boggs and Herbie Small -
and longed for adventures to rival
Holmes and Watson's
which aired every Saturday morning
on a round-screen Stromberg Carlson
in my grandparents' doilied parlor and
in the window of the neighborhood furniture store
where the owner had placed this new invention
that no home should be without
for all to see, in order to lure customers
into a monthly payment plan.

Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce

The Secret is in the Source

The performance began with lapsed Catholics
cavorting on the head of a pin
hedging immortality
phoning a friend for reservations.
That should have been enough
to stave off the hordes of true believers
clamoring at the gates
ears glued to the speaker's mouth
many with the heebie-jeebies
ring-tailed from a traveling medicine show
that passed through here last summer
hawking this, that, and the other thing
eyes fixed on the hereafter.
So many artists perched on trapezes
you'd think the inner dome of heaven.
But think again.
The secret of course is in the source:
white-washed lofts with unmade double beds
overlooking a wintry river,
Carver-country characters
working on jacked-up wrecks in weedy front yards,
the earnest tracking of memoirs
written in rolling ball black on yellow legal pad
read by onlookers who rubberneck
on their off days.
Things look pretty good now
but stick around.
At any moment hash-slinging could take on new meaning
particularly with a five-cartoushe pileup on the Interstate
and miles to go before the next confessional.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

In the Night Kitchen

Moments before the door opened
and Sadie and Amy rushed after the schoolbus
in a blur of plaid,
several amanuenses appeared
with their notebooks
for some frantic last-minute jotting,
unfiltered cigarettes painted
flamboyantly
dangling hither and yon.
Never at a loss for words
they stood there as dapper as
spigots among the lawn ornaments
gauging the celibacy
of artichoke hearts.
Unfazed, grandmother continued
to stare resolutely
at the innards of grandfather's clock
as familiar to her
after so many years
as the crannies of her night kitchen.
It was time for her to unveil
the nitty gritty: the butterfly collection
we'd all heard about
held back for a year or two
in the lower grades.
The first hint of it had long
been forgotten
buried under tons
of paper-weighted paperwork.
Meanwhile, several others
seemed to be in the final stages
of their journey
back from who knows where.
It was the last thing she remembered
before getting up and leaving
the room without fanfare.

Again the Rain

Darkness triangulates the room.
Her silk blouse and investment portfolio
slow dance in the corner,
the mirror reflecting their music.
My hard drive spins out of control,
purging files, flagging me
as an extra in search of parts unknown.

And the crows. Always the crows.

This Trajectory Life #3

This trajectory life arrives early with a backup
and in the flick of a wrist fills the afternoon
with a throbbing sequence of unremitting tones
freezing passersby amid a cluster of clouds thick
with the forecast from weatherunderground.com.

On His Partial Deafness

          for Dennis Sullivan (with apologies to John Milton)

My kids and close friends get annoyed with me!
Can you imagine?
They get annoyed with me.
They with me.
They pump up the volume
shake their heads
grimace
roll their eyes
look heavenward
then, with wrinkled brow
and an expulsion of air,
tell me to forget it.
It's not important!

Like I wanted this.
Like I get off on frustration.
Like I have this thing for hairshirts.
Like I've elected to have surgery
to switch from stereo to monaural.

OK, so I've stepped on a few toes in my time
refused occasionally to give someone the right of way
cut a few people off
flipped some the almighty bird
maybe even climbed over one or two or possibly three or four.
Who hasn't?

But was this really necessary?
Aren't the hammer toes enough?
The hammer toes and the nearsightedness?
The hammer toes and the nearsightedness and the postnasal drip?

Why this?
When there are so many other ways
to chastise a lapsed pilgrim -
like a hangnail perhaps
or a smidgen of intestinal distress
even a root canal!
Yeah, even a root canal
would be easier to swallow,
a tad more palatable.
But this?
Hobbling along on one ear
so it's like I'm hearing only half of what's said
if that!

I've become the resident expert on Closed Captioning
a speedier reader
a multitasker of pictures and words
annoyed when a film's vintage
predates the closed captioner's keyboard.

Maybe if I distance myself as the third person
à la Mr. John Milton
"On His Blindness"
Who was he kidding?
On His Blindness
His three wives?
I don't think so!
Yeah, maybe then I'll be able to sail through
Kubler-Ross's stages of loss -
and accept the fact
that the sausages frying in my left ear will never be done
that the appliance in my ear looks like a chewed-up circus peanut
that it makes me feel like I have swimmer's ear
or a massive head cold
or that I'm living in Seattle
or better yet London
or that I'm hearing sounds through a tin can
or a pillow
or ear muffs
or that I have a potato sticking out of my ear
and everyone's looking at it.

The fact that I can't hear my alarm clock though
when I sleep on my right side
isn't necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe I should assume a Buddhist perspective
and regard the glass as half-full
look at its bright side
an opportunity for growth
in that now
I can smile and nod at my supervisor's rants
walk past a panhandler without feeling guilty
overlook my kids' loud music
my neighbor's loud dog
my relatives' loud mouths
but mostly
bask in the knowledge that some lips are better to read
than a good poem.

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent  by L. DeFoor

Three Squares and Then

Surely the previous tenants would know the combination,
the end point, the whole ball of wax,
and why this margarine is putrid.
Find another justification.
I'll bet there are plenty in the pantry,
alphabetized, in three-ring binders.
Living in a clapboard has its moments
and this is one of them.
Passersby seem secure enough
with their notion of the daily grind.
I, however, am not so sure.
I guess you've got to apply some elbow grease
otherwise it will pass you by.
And I don't have to remind you what happened
the last time we tried to board without a ticket.
They still talk about it at Luigi's.
Which reminds me.
Check the circulation desk for the latest perennials.
I wouldn't want to miss the next installment.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Strange Evening #8

Did you wait for that strange evening
to leave the Airstream with a card mechanic
cutting at the crimp? The others
at the table are bottom feeders,
pomegranate growers from Weehawken
with letters of introduction
from your former associate,
a house dealer who burned spades
until the eye in the sky blinked him out.

Woman VII

Candles brighten my off-sides.
The book staring at me
from across the room
may as well read itself.
I've bought loafers to save time
and put pennies in them.
Her words swell my pockets.
My keyboard is tongue-tied.
I brew tea and read the bag.
Strolling through a Japanese garden
hand-in-hand
appears on my grocery list.

Kate Moss by Chuck Close

Business as Usual

[Rimbaud] just went about living each day as it came along,
with its own set of questions and phenomena.
          - John Ashbery

I want to begin by retooling my second act.
It's not as if I haven't been keeping apace.
My neighbors I'm sure would attest to my valiant effort:

up at the crack of dawn, counting my blessings,
thinking about the good things that the day can bring
oblivious to its ups and downs.

So much has happened since we last commiserated,
I feel overwhelmed by the need to fill you in.
Perhaps it would be better to take it a little at a time

and see what develops.
Nothing like a hot bath to put things in perspective
and to help keep one's nose clean.

Business as usual, isn't that what they say?
Of course, a few trips to the pharmacy could change that.
All this talk about cholesterol has given me a headache

especially with the fax machine so close at hand.

I'd like to put it behind us once and for all and move on,

if only for the time being.

Euthanasia

The apologies thicken.
The house quakes,
totters,
begins to slide
slowly
into the landfill.

He resumes life,
tries to keep busy.
Readies the garden
for winter.
Continues to consider
alternatives.

Remembers
the last time
they were together
in the rain
when one umbrella
was enough.

Dragonflies

          for Steve Jobs 1955-2011

Dragonflies fill the air
and our hands with wonder:
Etruscan artifacts
the importance of climate-control
everything we want to know
about anything.

Woman VI

She loves to fly standby
and make the most of it
tantalizing others
with word-of-mouth
and instructions
for otherworldly delights.
Her movements are pivotal
to her role
as understudy.

Hanna Paat

I’ll Have a Number Five

It seemed unreasonable on such short notice
but with the final coat of paint applied,
we began traipsing through in plastic bags,
recording our impressions on Post-its.

Trees bemoaned their losses as an afterthought.
We raised our glasses in dismay and let the cat out of the bag.
He bolted for the door, and hasn’t been heard from since.
Someone’s bridge partner was caught in the act.

I was miffed, but decided not to make a stink.
Who wants to be a fish out of water,
especially at night
when cats roam the streets with unfettered pizzazz?

I must admit, though, it is a far cry from the run of the mill:
the parquet flooring
the foundation as good a start as any
the walk-in water closets.

Having a backhoe at one’s beck and call helps, I suppose.
But there’s always something, yes?
The other day, for example, during a commercial break,
I ordered a number five without onions, and got them.

Number 5  by Jasper Johns

This Trajectory Life #2

This trajectory life weathers the tyranny
of the morning's commute
with the nonchalance of a grandmaster in control of the board:
leaping into the faceted grayness
sprinting for the newsstand past the remains of the day
hailing an uptown cab
taking on a crossword challenge
seducing a conductor into losing interest in a sinfonia
trembling an audience to a halt on the edge of their seats.

Surely this Day too will be Filled with Alternatives

Flabby rain-soaked arms welcome gulls the size of chickens
as rehearsals begin against the pounding surf.

The pool we so gleefully splashed around in
throughout the summer sits half-heartedly behind

Closed for the Season, mumbling, I guess we'll never know
(especially now with winter a stone's throw away).

Nearby an amateur phonographer points her Sony
ECM-MS907 at the fisheries commingling in the queue.

I bury myself in an instruction manual
hoping this time to discover the steps

that seem just out of reach. Around me, umbrellas bicker.
Conversations with flavors like fudge crystal

and ampersand swirl plunge headlong, splitting their seams.
A shortage of creamers irritates a few joggers

who begin traversing the lawn - minuet-like - before
skipping out for the much-touted continental breakfast.

Insinuation

One has to have the thoughts one has, one can't just
have the thoughts one would like to have.
          - Jasper Johns

His puppy dog threatens to throw in the towel
so you rewrite the dialogue for the water closet
talking heads deconstructing attachment
sounding more and more like separation anxiety.
His puppy dog is cute, yes he (she?) is
but when the pizza of the day is Mexican,
you deserve more than a break.
Have a small one, with, as they say, the works.
The parking lot bit is a hoot, I'll give them that,
as well as a refresh button to segue into a parallel life.
But that's it. I'm tapped out.
OK, maybe the upbeat is over the top,
but really, amigo, what’s the alternative?
Gloomski and doomski?
And please enough already with the Facebook.
It's in there, trust me, along with whatever.
Oh, and, by the way, who said jowls are the new black?
Lately, everything seems over the top, hyperbolic.
But, then, what lies ahead, lies ahead, yes?

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Tenement

A knee floats high above a kiosk-splattered byway, a knee untethered from the brittleness of the brilliant end run, a knee familiar with the barleycorned lights of the harbor, a knee soon-to-be-the-subject of a full-length feature film directed by a cohort, presently in disarray, talking up a titanium replacement with a pair of bosomy twins who are here to audition for the choir of an intricate chapel at the behest of a man of the cloth who just now ducked out to get nipped and tucked. Why risk chronic stiffness? colors the quartet's first jabs as a bird of a different feather nests on the roof of a tenement pockmarked with air conditioners trucked in by mobs of Teamsters in the high heat of summer stock's seasonal playoffs. There's an Old World charm to this, and to the alopecia-plagued hound chasing a Brussels sprout across the linoleum floor laid down several scores of years ago by unemployed steeplejacks contemplating midlife career changes when all else failed. The commonplace has arrived on the scene as well, replete with contortionists hawking cut rates along the bus line, their timeworn notions inhabiting sultry nights when little else of interest is scheduled to air on the local cable. Desire overwhelms several emergency shelters. The lights throb and pulse with metaphorical otherworldliness. At times like these, it's best to overlook the cereal stains in the breakfast nook left by the stranger who at first appeared whimsical almost desultory in his buttoned-down oxford but later metamorphosed into a high-pressure hair-replacement strategist taking us aback when without asking he flashed his credentials, drank too much, and wouldn't stop talking. He'd wanted to get to know us better but we were onto him this time and late for work besides.

This Trajectory Life #1

This trajectory life distributes a list of FAQs
provoking an award-winning display of support for what
is yet to come from Richard Burton
lookalikes, their challenging roles
trumping the darkness of cineplexes everywhere.

The World According to (Your Name Here)

But what if you're not sprung from sleep by the light?
To gurgle along merrily with the flow?
Snatching a banana or an orange
from one of the many overhangs?
Gabbing with the locals?
Have you finished the book you've been reading?
The one you couldn't put down?
I saw you at the supermarket in the canned soup aisle
comparing sodium levels with a metronome.
You were so engrossed I didn't stop.
The word on the street is that you're up most nights,
pacing, in your new white bucs.
Disgruntlement is a no-no, you know.
At least here in the center ring.
Your white Honda Prelude - Sil3nt 1 - sits in the parking lot
of the latest development, assuming a different persona
for every Tom, Dick, and Jane.
And if he (or she) can do it, so can you.
It's time to bee-line for the rest room
where an open mic of horn rims is about to begin -
a Rimbaudesque excitement filling the water closet,
the sand waiting to smooth wrinkled souls.
You've seen those enjambments before, you know.
But so what?
At least there's comfort in the familiar.
In the tried and true.
And with the clock ticking down it's bishop to queen four.
White on right, right?
Yes, start whistling now.
It will carry you through the atelier
resurrecting that night when inappropriateness held sway.
It was fun, wasn't it?
So what if the constable paid us a visit?
Let the swags move to the center, I say.
They'll soon be off the radar
traveling east along a bumpy two-lane
trying to absorb the changes that have occurred
in the four months they've been unlooped.
And don't forget to keep your eyes peeled
as you weather the ramifications of your latest tailspin.
Keep a pad and pencil handy, too,
next to your bed, even,
for those late-night archetypes
that are sure to emanate from your collective unconscious.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Buying Trout Fishing In America at Megabooks

big hair perky breasts coltish
micro-mini'd legs moist
full red lips perfect pink-tongued
white teeth cashiering
at Megabooks
takes my outstretched ten dollar bill
purrs Do you fish?

Trout Fishing in America  by Richard Brautigan

The Yellow Jacket

          after Vermeer's "A Lady Writing a Letter"

She is not the first young woman to sit for him.
Yet tonight, again, he has been awakened by her image -

an image that occupies his dreams
tugs at his bedsheets,

numbs him to his all-too-comfortable life.
She will sit for him again tomorrow.

He will suggest that she rest a moment,
that she stand near the window

so the light seduces the contours of her face.
He will ask if the yellow pleases her, if it captures

the radiance of her jacket, the weeks of sittings,
the furious grinding of pigment.

A Lady Writing a Letter  by Johannes Vermeer

Woman V

She's had sidemen
multi-instrumentalists
whose virtuosity
I've been told
is unparalleled.
And she can solo as well
with the best:
head back
eyes half-closed
unfocused
conjuring sounds
from composition books
not sold in schools.