Avant
pickle-dee-doodle-ee
Guard
God.
Guard
God!
Pick
up a rock and carry it to the navel of the Earth and drop it in.
Ask
three times
this is twentieth century America ness pa?
this is?
twenty-first century madness?
You’re
not mad you’re sadder than a bladder.
Breathing
in and out practicing Tai Chi
because he’s not a football star.
Say
nothing for three Mahatma Gandhi’s.
Cut
a fiddle in half down the middle if it’s not worth anything & and you don’t want
it anyway.
Conserve.
Make
some chutney. Green tomatoes and apples and raisins and ginger and cinnamon and
on and on.
Boil
art in it until it tastes good.
The
avant-garde is by now well pickled. well heeled, well potatoed, picked over
till
not
even the carcass is left.
The
weight of a dead bird.
A
way to not be able to fly into the 21st Century.
Flap
FLAP!
Flap
FLAP!
I
CAN’T EVEN GET OFF THE TABLE!
HOW ARE WE GOING TO ENTER THE 21ST?
With a ding dong?
With a merry merry have a canary?
With a post guard tough love syndrome
where character counts?
With a pillow with moss on it from an
endangered tropical bonanza?
From Campbell’s soup quietly put to rest
and never pop-arted again?
With a giant bang or gross whimper or just
a nothing at all not even a sigh
a whisper or a kissing sound?
With just the same old thing again but
more people, more people
and a helluva lot more endangered
species.
With a gun in every hand and every man an
octopus and
every woman a hydra-headed Dillenger
toting weapon?
With
just a little mercy.
With
just a little sobriety.
With
maybe a good night’s sleep.
With
maybe an appreciation of the dawn.
Not
hung over
not
all drugged
not
just so tired
not
weirded out or anything just
getting
up to greet
Number
One.
larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / from Beyond TV, poems from 1995
