Mister Barbenstock

 

Mr. Barbenstock had eaten one of his students--

a little girl who sat in the third desk, 

far right row, a tiny ladybug in a hand-me-down jar.

There was a flurry of shrill criticisms from yappy parents,

the kind who weep at every brown leaf

and drive their sissy-ass cars to carnivals on Sunday.

Mr. B (as he was known at Grimoire Elementary)

stood out like bloody steak atop a birthday cake--

this bearded, uber-correct male among the ewes.

How many had he done this to? demand school paper reporters,

caps askew in the rough and tumble of a performative press conference.

What evil lies unsuspected beneath blah blah yadda yadda.

Mr. B. hears hummingbirds in his head; they alone can understand

his infinite lovesickness, lugubrious as an engine leak

in his smoking, whirring, damaged heart, hurting him.

His life has become a kind of constant translation--

bathtub to oceanside, mini-Cooper to Graf Zeppelin,

vacant, fidgety students to roaring throng of weird cryptids!

Mr. Barbenstock blinks. The prosecutor is asking for a cardinal number

denoting his victims. Everyone has grown up in a matter of moments.

It's a math problem! He begins to instruct, his forte where he hides.

________________

for Word Garden Word List--Richard Blanco. 

Music: The Temptations I Can't Get Next To You

Freezing Rain On A February Evening

inside, the pages, outside, the ice

outside, the night, here sweet delight

inside the tale, outside rages

a frozen fall of rattling white

playing out on facing stages

outside, the ice, inside, the pages.

_______

a sparrowlet

with a nod to William Blake's

Auguries of Innocence

for Dverse MTB

hosted by Laura Bloomsbury

Music: The Doors

End of the Night

 

Book

 

Let me tell you about the book I've been reading.

I started it so long ago, I can't now recall the opening lines 

or even how I came to have this book.

I think it was a gift, but I'm not sure from whom,

and though it's at most about a hundred pages long.

it has a great many chapters and characters.

Sometimes I love it and wish I could stay on a favorite page forever,

but by turns I want to throw it against the wall or destroy it.

Every time I think I've figured out where it's going or what it means,

the narrative changes and goes off in some unexpected direction.

I'm often displeased with the author or the characters

and wonder why in the world the story goes the way it does.

For the first few chapters, I was eager to read it quickly,

but as I've gotten nearer the finish than the start I want to slow down.

I loved some characters so much that they became part of me,

and I genuinely suffered when they were written out of the tale.

Others I hated and yet they lingered for page after page.

I had hopes for what would come next, more when I started than now.

What began as a children's book, became YA, adult fiction,

and now it's almost a memoir. I'm not sure how many pages are left.

I wonder, what if I had found myself reading a different edition,

a sequel, another book by the same author, a different genre,

setting, plot, or style? Would i have liked those better, or less?

Ah well, even though I have thrilled to the love scenes, cried when

the characters failed, were terribly hurt, or died, believed every word

or scoffed at the absurdity of it, none of it is even actual in the end.

It's a tale, something made-up, though it has seemed very real.

Novels, plays, films, they move me, change me, sometimes bore me,

irritate me, or leave me in despair, but they are only shadows. 

One day, the book will fall from my hand, and I'll protest that I

wasn't finished! or perhaps I'll sigh and say I'm glad to be shut of it.

No one else will read my particular book again after me, though

sections and passages may be passed down and I'll be

a character in someone else's book, a product of imagination.

_______

for What's Going On? -- Books/Reading.

Don't forget that Word Garden Word List remains active through Sunday. 

Music: Crash Test Dummies Afternoons & Coffee Spoons