August 8, 2008

a latenight obsessions
covered in questions

Alexander Rodchenko, Dive, 1935

Bob Ross The PBS Painter Patiently
Walks Us Through The Peace Sign

-- by Dennis Mahagin

(from his new, downloadable chapbook Bandini's Disco Usufruct)

Well now,
this week I think we’ll start out
swashing our numbered canvas
with an itty bitty burnt
umber stick figure—

give him
a smiley sunspot for
pie hole,
red rooster ruff on beatific
brow, just…

and next?—
heck why not go
ahead and blow off
both his clown feet

with a rusty half-moon
Kandahar or perhaps Anbar
Provincial Claymore swathed
in creamy, wavy sand
swale disguise… Okay-zee-
way-zee?... Now, I think
we're ready for the upraised
Popeye-sized evangelistic arms
to come clean

detached thanks to sizzling white-hot shrapnel
spittle tracers from a Jihad dirt clod IED, until

Matchstick Boy, he
starts duck-walking
figure eights as though
dazed in the aftermath
of an awful Plains wheat
thresher mishap...

Oh, I do think he's
starting to take shape

—look there!—

now he’s spurting crimson geysers
from a neck that’s lost its loose-strung
head in a cartoon balloon feud with Connie
Chung over the most arousing, yet

way to phrase a Nightly News
body count.

what say we
go ahead and
give him his
arms back?

That’s the kind of civic
generosity PBS is famous for!

Then if he
hugs himself
real tight, we’ll
protract a
perfect circle

'round the Chop-A-
Block torso, and he’ll be

just right for
lapel pins, Volvo bumper stickers
and retro black light posters to adorn
the bedroom walls of deeply-troubled
adolescent boys.

Self Portrait One Year From Now
-- by Sandra Beasley

Snake farming will turn out easier than I thought,
Florida cheaper, and my tangled lakefront will have
one lone sentry, a flamingo
white, unmotivated, preferring fish
to courtship. And I will wear hats. Straw ones.

I will not recall the Viking bounty,
the cotton incarcerations of the Salvation Army,
the girl, the mewling girl,
and how you shed us all like a tired skin when you left.

There will be two moons:
mine, ever and gladed
and yours, cold and above,
watched from a quiet bed,
kept awake — as you always are —
by bites from small, dedicated mouths.


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home