In Honor Of

They name things after people.

It's done all the time,

like

the George Washington Bridge

or

Kennedy Space Center.

Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee

but then,

Sara Lee never did anything to me.

There are others.

O'Hare airport,

Richard A. Handlon Correctional Facility

or

Willard Asylum for the Chronic Insane.

I'm adding one

and calling it

The Pat R. Harvey Desert.

Its grand scale reflects your self-importance,

its shifting sands your endless bogus tap dance,

and its

vast, uninhabitable wastes

your vacant heart.

I placed a plaque

smack dab in the middle

where the sun is harshest.

It tells the tale

of which curb I kicked your bullshit to.

If you want it,

it's out there where nothing can survive

with your golf clubs

and your

side piece.

_______

for What's Going On? "desert"

.

Farm

 

The butter is hard--

the biscuit takes it like a punch.

Eat your crumbs, child.

The milk expands, exploding the jug.

Cold cows care for nothing,

least of all the farmer's hands blue on the udder. 

This is agri-business. There are rules.

The clerk is here to count the kernels.

 No kindness from crows hard and polished as obsidian.

The vane is a zig-zag escapee

shouting "Freedom!" from inside the wind's mouth

where white teeth worry at fogged-up windows.

Automated fakes pass out promises

in Dixie cups, hats bobbing like generator vent caps,

a rooster in every head, erupting with cold words. 

Paint the chickens black and white

and dress them in freezer bags like crunchy raincoats.

Salute the magpie, child,

for luck, your ribs bent into a horseshoe and nailed

above the big open door

where our policies are performed.

_______

for Word Garden Word List--Philip K. Dick

Flight of the Arctic Tern

 

Come on this polar expedition

they said.

It'll be fun.

You might meet someone

bring a gun

they said.

Where are they now, those golden friends

with their golden 

spilt ends

and their friendship that never ends

written on a napkin

in pencil?

Oh, wire cage towel mother,

how about a hug?

How about a rug to take a nap on?

All of this pretty blue ice

seems to be getting the best of me

lo these

many years on the floe. 

Oh, furious angry white bear with your

cotton-ball cubs

somebody loves you, don't they?

I could tell

as you were shredding me all to hell

that you were the white carpet type

with the correct wine

a smart address

and annual membership at the wishing well.

I'd like to be an Inuit with a movie library

here on the hard-pack.

Given six months of sunlight,

I could repair the damage from the constant calving

and get right. 

I'd go home, with my raging PTSD carefully cradled

in a nest of newspapers 

inside my luggage. 

The airline would charge me extra to carry it

and make me jump out

after calculating

altitude and windage.

Hello dear friends, I'm back

I would say

landing hard at Cuckooville Subdivision

in a spray of

wing ice and duty-free fragrances

direct from nowhere

where your children are doing well,

your husbands are golf course gods

and you,

oh you,

pretend not to notice that I'm sliced to smithereens

hanging unfashionably upside-down

like the tongue 

who once brought music

to your bell.

______

for Word Garden Word List--Where'd You Go, Bernadette?

Music: Donna Lewis Agenais

Naive Art

 The black cat with the golden eyes

hides in the garden

with the broken-necked tulips

in the Spring.

The tulips

in their pink headscarves

will never raise their gaze again--

only their arms

to the blank blue sky.

The black cat with the steady gaze

hides in the garden

fascinated with the dun-colored mourning dove

on the gray sill.

The mourning dove

watches for the speckled hawk

beneath the yellow sun

of April.

Devils

There are devils--
never doubt it.

They are in the details,
and they lounge on the brass cross-piece at the foot of your bed
all through your decumbiture.

Decarnate devils fuck with your read outs
and your precious little decastich.
This little devil screwed the meter.
This little devil scotched the poem.
This little devil cried we we we 
will goose you at your desk
at our will
and all the way home.

Here's your désobligeante 
with a devil on the box beneath the moon.
Here's your digitorium
with a devil to call the tune.

Forget what you've been fed
about doromanic deities.
All there is is devils,
all over,
all in,
all red.

Die now. Why not?
The devil gonna getcha anyway.
Maybe tomorrow.
More likely today.

But what about redemptive grace?
What about angels?
Oh, grow up.
To shelter?
To save?
The devil you say.

_____

thanks to march debzati for some devilishly darling D Words.

decarnate      denied or deprived of physical bodily form
decastich      ten-line poem 
decumbiture      the time spent by an invalid in bed 
désobligeante      carriage for one passenger 
doromania      obsession with giving gifts
digitorium      silent piano for practicing

 
 

 

this is just to say

this is just to say
that I was
saving those plums,
but you go ahead.

So much depends upon
a red fire department
ambulance

as your eyes glaze
and water.

Forgive me
the plums were poisoned
so sweet and
so cold

beside your white
selfish chicken ass.

______

I hate William Carlos Williams poetry, and I especially hate "This Is Just To Say" and  "The Red Wheelbarrow." 

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold 


The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


Both above poems by William Carlos Williams. Parody at top by me for Real Toads mini-challenge.