Tuesday, May 7, 2013


IV (continued)

May 7

Prescribe me a spoofer.  What?
Going all the way.  If conflict
is in the nature of the beast, quelled.

This is not the best time to dial in
a private line.  Do you think
somehow the closings speak

for themselves?  Measured tones
from here on out, and abustle too.
Cracked grassy lots, graffiti,

and the usual hour business calls.
Let's start the day without guilt,
with only minor inflammations,

a sudden shortness of breath, but
not a cry of  '¡Ay, caramba!'
No, more like moseying toward

a destination, a meeting with a mark
known to be charming in private, like
standing in the street with nicotine

on the breeze.  They installed bleachers
I heard, yes, yes, and the sea still has
breakers, listen, I'm on another line.

Has the call come in from Istanbul?
Let's make malarkey while the sun shines.
Precious few of us will be necessary

in the next round.  But nowhere to go.
Just so you grasp that.  What's the deal
on Metro Lace anyway?  Bigelow told me

it capsized, lost all hands, or so they said.
I'm quashed.  Even in the country,
there are expected deliveries, if only

of a philogenitive nature.  Bedroom
eyes shake up the animal kingdom,
the houses tightly coupled, autos stored,

and storied lawns.  Arrivederci Roma.
He never lost his temper in company,
saved it for when he heard birds

out there on the links, or walking
the path toward the pool.  Night
is like your personal valet, give it

something to do, don't just stand
around in skivvies, your hand
in your pants, try to remember

the algorithm, the backstory,
the subplot, the commandments,
for Christ's sake.  Any port

in a flash crash, buddy, the breeze
divine, the architecture eye-worthy
in classic American style, or retro,

but like the tombstone read,
“I'd rather be in Philadelphia.”
Unless.  Of course.  You said it.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

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