I'd

I'd redo the chairs like B Smith with all the cloth reprocessed from those days when the weevil ate the cotton down to stalks, where the proletariat sold their labor for life/or love. I'd make the men strong again with bone broth and goulash full of Zen , buds of next season's spring mix, in season squash and onions. For the kittens (at my feet) mused by the  oxtails, I would

read aloud poems written suddenly under celestial spheres, Christmas stars, spatial objectivity; the loaded shotgun

in the corner would serve the hanks well who found houses on country-sides to run under with old women brandishing silver wear for weapons  and old men slouched on  chairs of emotional experience (it is the essence of the fairy tale remember) watching 50 year old reruns on 40 year old tv's. I would dust under the picture of John F Kennedy and with the shoulder I hurt and is still sore, nudge closer that of the extravagant Malcolm, still tall and pointing. Again, to undergo will take prospectus, a broadcast,

performances, towers full of mavens wearing their bouffant hairdo's like halo's, kicking over the ladders of salvation/ happy to be left alone with only time capsuled and holding their faces in their palms/  like every teenaged girl on earth who c***s their

swiveling hips to take selfies before suicide. There would be no real need for the poets to ever use the phrase "thick bough's" again to mean  'I have  acted this way on purpose so accept me, my arms-full, withered and soft, my breastforms from the time cancer chopped sisters chest down to scorched earth like a November cornfield'. Everyone I know just wants facets of themselves of which there is no noun equivalent. I'd find an old lover who's frigidity makes her womb cast off scents like raspberry Starbursts. I'd stroke the cats long back. I'd bend over without putting my knee on the floor then pulling myself up again by the edge of the country top. But then again, perhaps none of this is true. perhaps like electricity, nothing ever caters to the intensity of itself, mirrored back. I'd repaint the kitchen again but this time i'd cover the chew marks, the scratches, the ginger stains dropped in crevices. The groves in the floor tiles where the chair has made the sticky squares come unglued in front of the window where my eyes grew baggy and where I drank Sanka to the very edge of incontinence. Yes, where I finally felt well enough to rise and collect my stones for the next corner of self pity I shall build: it will be a prolapse. It will be a falling down of the century, where the body slips from it's eternal bone shelf like the musical parts of a bad sax solo. Or as the old folks use to say, "take the stairs" which means to let the gall wasp leave his oak apples on the leaves and twigs of his choosing. I am ready.

Reviews

[T.S. Ulmus]

This is about as digestible as "Ulysses" or "gravity's rainbow". It should be flattering to have such things mentioned in your comparison. But... no one can seem to read those things either. Please do not feel insulted, you are clearly carving out your own rut and I can appreciate that. You have a way with words, your own way.

[h d e rushin]

what happened in December should not ever be repeated. Not poetry, nor funeral. Not love affair nor cherry blossom. Thank you T.S. for those words of comfort. dana

[Robert Trakofler]

was that id or I'd or was it ego or I'd or was it pin-drop silence against the cacophony of conundrum what it isn't is alternative reality meets the only reality! for you are as real as one can be miss Dana, in fact, I am a bit jealous i don't think i have even come close to as real as you are...

[h d e rushin]

thanks my friend...I can't come as often as I use to. but I appreciate you.....dana

[Delmar Cooper]

There's a lot I need to do. None of that, but a lot. A lot of my own attic trash to clean out. There's s**t I need to just disremember. So, I may not know where you're coming from but I know where you took me.

[h d e rushin]

happy new year my friend....so glad you came along with me....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"scents like raspberry Starbursts" I had a couple old girlfriends who burst my star more than once.
I still have chew marks to prove it.
I lived a lot of this...
anybody got a cell phone I can borrow for my selfie?
"the intensity of itself" describes each of your poems perfectly.
j.

[h d e rushin]

love your thoughts always Jacob...happy new year my friend....dana