Dear Katie

 

Dear Katie,

                  please pardon the confusion--

mine,

yours,

the weather's.

Today in group they wanted us to talk about

someone who really loves us.

I started to laugh

                            like slipping on ice

I couldn't wave myself fast enough

                            to save a fall

and the laughing became an ugly cry.

They like us to do things with our hands here

so I made

                a love potion for you.

Yeah, too late. like checking a smoking oven.

But,

       I can still portion by intuition

like how much to kiss you in the morning.

I used

a pinch of rust from a love lock

the memory of five black tulips

and 1 tsp essence of caramel fudge ice cream--

       Jeff Buckley ballads to taste

        baked at 350 until the moon turns silver like your poetry.

Gosh Katie,

                   they took away my books,

said I needed to engage with others.

I went back to group today and said, whoa, back up--

let's do that thing

                              from yesterday.

I pulled my shit together this time, not like before,

and I said,

                Katie mon amour

                 Katie je t'aime je t'aime, je t'aime.

This one bitch goes, you're not French,

you're not even Canadian you fucking freak

But she never stumbled drunk up the stairs with you,

poetry ringing in our ears and the summer night on our skin.

More to be pitied than scorned,

                                                    I can hear you say.

Anyway,

              love ya girl

Katie mon amour,

              Our Lady of Tulips and the Silver Moon.

________________

for Dverse Poetics, "From Your Valentine" hosted by Sanaa.

Music: Chantel Chamberland-- Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

The Advice Communist

The "Life" section of the Detroit Daily Worker begins 
running a column called "The Advice Communist" alongside
state-sanctioned recipes for cornbread pie and
tips for decorating your collective factory.

Dear Advice Communist, writes Cheryl from Oak Park,
My mother wants a big church wedding, but my fiance
doesn't. They fight continually about it and I am in the 

middle.

Please help.

The Advice Communist reads the letter carefully, adjusts his

pince-nez, then composes his response:

There is no God, therefore your mother is a czarist symp-

athizer. 

Inform the authorities about her. Then after she

disappears, get married by a noble worker in the bed

of his state-manufactured farm truck.

Nancy from Southfield writes, My relatives from Frankenmuth

are visiting for Thanksgiving, and I am worried because

they don't control their bratty kids. What can I do?

Dear Nancy: Drive back the fascist swine with a withering hail

of machine-gun fire, followed by  mighty waves

of infantry. Pound them with artillery until nightfall,

then let the Michigan winter do the rest. If the cowards abandon

any of their indoctrinated swine-children, put them on

a train to the gulag. Happy Holidays!

The Detroit Daily Worker also runs the "Peanuts" comic

strip, featuring noble proletariat Lucy and 

capitalist puppet Charlie Brown. 

______

For De Jackson's "Let's Get Jambin' " at Dverse Place of Counterproductive Intoxication, and, of course, for the glory of the worker!

"The Advice Communist" first appeared as part of a May 7, 2011 post at my satire blog Objets D'art. 

When Eaten By Sharks

When eaten by sharks, try to stay calm.
If possible, write down the genus and species;
call your old professor if you think she can help.

Don't automatically assume that being eaten by sharks is pure disaster.
Imagine that smug know-it-all relation of yours. 
Imagine his face when you greet his latest pronouncement by leaning out from rows of enormous teeth,
waving at him from between shreds of seal, 
laughing at him from your unassailable new address.

When eaten by sharks, try to remember which shark took what portion.
By doing this, you may be able to reassemble a prototype,
from which a full replacement may be constructed.

Most of all, try to acclimate yourself as soon as possible.
Inside these perpetually swimming creatures, travel is yours.
If limbs remain usable, hit the inside of the shark's belly with an open hand;
the resulting bass beat will astonish nearby boaters.
"Listen," they will say to each other, "that's Morse code."

Send letters, long, short, long, describing being eaten by sharks.
Query editors. Self-publish. Above all, work quickly.
________