“Are you Quill?,” She asked abeam.
“Yes, of course! – mostly – when the Muselle’
visits oft’n’r upon, as my wont!
“Well, here!, this will surely help at the Magic…
And IT, Voila!, was in hand, a thrust-unmistakable!
Blunt, bulbous & sleek, a slick Recife,
this Turquoise and Silver stick.
Is IT “Blue?” Is IT “Black?”
Pray, “Blue-Black!?” Wow! –
A Soul instrument for Playing in the Indigene,
Sole Colors of the Earth! – I nearly crack to Self.
Swirled-embedded, b’neath the haute Baekelight-Crystal
like a LavaLamp-Entemp. IT’s messages of ambidexsrait-
Threads, Mola thru splayed fingers. O’ Charitable Mage
You have brought to Life!… I Write Handcrafted!
Across the River, West ’tis that
at the cliffs & clefts of Victoria above
blackish waters slick as Legislation, of Verrazzano
& not-so-merried ferries, the promontory sits of
visage, resplendented of red deer & red bear &
white Eagles’ scat from Lady Liberty!
Why, in the glare of where, opossum
& red squirrel, vied in-passioned
imposters of small virtue in deed
sought, wrought of purloin
for some vertu & bijouterie
(The Chief Islander) – so the Mythic goes!
But hey!, it’s up-on the BigScreen, now
playin’ @ The Bijou, & in the dutri-plexes
& plexes of plexiglasse &
MegaPlexes of Tribeca, in the Tri-boros+2…
Avaunt! Above Verrazzano visage
tramontane, there! the Filth & Flair
of City fare, miasma which got us into
Boys n’ Girls, didja’ see ta’day?
160-more “flies” – 200+ withousted their wings,
torn by who-knows-who, any-more?…
32/+ blackened-in-Blacksburg!?… Hell,
do this each Day/every Day! in Mesomedesia,
don’cha know, before brushing our mourning teeth,
coughing & doughnuts! – +FIVE YEARS!
But, Hey Man!, like whose counting, & counted, ’cept the Shades, perhaps
& Sri Smedley Butler, in a non-General Way, eh?, but lo,
The Hi-Tech-Tragedy?, jumped-onto
like “Coventioneers at a Twenty-dollar fitchew!” and
“All The Drooze That’s Tit To Mint!”
(With Abject Sadness)
Tumi or Not Tumi?
No, It was not my time
to jaunt & jump about
the Morld with You, to
of Ischia, the privileges
of Mackinac, “…our Paris, Ilsa!”…
Ornamented ataud &
calefacted incinerators are
merely better-funded!, to a last-
notice of proteaned hoar, the
dearth of silk…
So, it was to be
Goa, or Delhi “curry-in-a-hurry” not,
and the touts & shouts
as We passed…
You in those shoes,
toeing-up with heel asway
like a silent, ticking-pendulum,
Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few
to my inti-mated Life,
why there was You insinuate…
E’er Yours-sporadic, tho’
an extravagance of Soul!, like
incipient Sinatra, or
the piano of Jarrett! But,
No, it was not your time
to jump & jaunt-about
with Me, but for You,
like a junkie afeared of needles,
to be going, & mine
to Write… of It, plecking-off
the pilpuls from
My blanket, & You to
replacing contoured batteries
for Now… perhaps as recent
as tomorrows’ accident.