Sunday, April 29, 2012

The Abnormal Gods

I see you sitting, smoking
with the abnormal gods from the neighborhood.
They are stone wheels grinding canary eggs
to make the blank pale bread of late summer;
while you, Peachy Cream, rock those jeans like a loaf of song.

I used to hang with them, too, you know.
I was the spit and image of hot July;
I offered them headlights from my hand,
and brought them lime juice all the way from Morocco.
The fuckers,
they never even glanced up.

Here is what will happen,
when the gray-shaken sky spills the deluge down J Street--
there will be a hum you'll feel
right through the golden soles of your wedges,
and you'll find yourself fluent before those muttering arthritic antiques
with the Camel packs in their sleeves.

A roll of your hips will dislodge the abnormal gods,
and I will sleep well tonight
on the soft yellow feathers
that fall
from the impossible feast of that victory.
_______

for Thursday Melting. I had to use these words: hum, muttering, juice, spit, abnormal, smoking, fluent, grind, shaken and blank.

A little Emmylou, to go with. *swoon swoon swoon*

15 comments:

annekatherinecronk said...

Wow, that first stanza is perfection!
I do hope for that victory at the end, and good night's sleep in those feathers.

Shawna said...

Aren't you glad I pushed you? This is super hot, particularly the roll of those hips at the end knocking all the abnormal gods loose so that she can walk without restriction.

This blows me away:
"They are stone wheels grinding canary eggs
to make the blank pale bread of late summer;
while you, Peachy Cream, rock those jeans like a loaf of song"

Everytime I read your blog, I think I've got to stop writing. You're the real thing, girlie.

Love this:
"I was the spit and image of hot July
I offered them headlights from my hand"

And this:
"you'll find yourself fluent before those muttering arthritic antiques"

Great framing with the canary eggs and bread at the beginning and then the feathers and feast at the end.

So when is it supposed to rain next?

rosemarymint.wordpress.com

(Why don't you allow anonymous commenting? Blogger annoys me.)

hedgewitch said...

This is a toothsome piece(and with one of my fave Emmy Lou songs for icing) 'loaf of song' is cool, as are so many twists and turns of phrase where you made the word list your own, then forced it into slave labor and triple shifts. I really like that second stanza--and the victory and feasting at the end. I warn you, I'm bringing my helmet, much flagonnage of mead and Olaf and Erik--they'd kill me if I made them miss feasting.

Kerry O'Connor said...

What a fantastic mash-up this is of the horrors of suburban snobbery and the ancient platform of the gods. Your heroine sizzles, in all her erotic feminine power, and I was rooting for her up-ending the gods' feasting table all the way.

cloudia charters said...

thumbscrew my hemline, if that opening quartet of lines isn't a hot fudge sundae !


your mind and vocab are yummy & right on.


Warm Aloha from Honolulu
Comfort Spiral

> < } } (°>

Lynn said...

Ah - you can never go wrong with Emmylou as an accompaniment.

Sioux said...

I feel the same as Shawna. I don't feel like I can even write a haiku (your favorite, I know ;) when I read your poetry.

The pinpointed images make this a wonderful piece. (And some Emmy on top!)

Daryl Edelstein said...

swoon swoon swoon .. yup yup yup

Mama Zen said...

The whole concept of the abnormal gods just blows me away. Very cool, chica.

HermanTurnip said...

"They are stone wheels grinding canary eggs"

Very pleasing line! Tells me all I need to know about these abnormal gods.

Buddah Moskowitz said...

One of the silently best things about growing older as a testosteronic traveler is that the predator gets tired of the chase - he just wants to sit, smoke a cigar and watch the smoke curl to a place he'll never know. Wrote a little about it ( http://ihatepoetry.blogspot.com/2011/10/grandpa-dracula.html )

Lady, you gots a way of writing that makes me want to hide the shit that I pass off, but it also inspires me to try harder to get at that elusive muse that seems to live with you. My muse won't won't even return my calls.

Luv luv luv and luv for you - Mosk de humbled

Raven said...

You are indeed vivid ... it is what I have always loved about your poems.

Timoteo said...

YES! This is a shining example of what I always hope against hope to find as I troll cyberspace for the good stuff...that second stanza blows me away...headlights from your hand--ha!

Mark Windham said...

love this....period. Anything else would just be an echo of Shawna and Mosk. Well done.

K9friend said...

That was an interesting mix of words, and you made it work!

Pat
Critter Alley