Fugitive Pieces

7.

A dog & a bear walked into a bar.
Whatelit be? The bear ordered a saw
& sawed the dogs head off. But how

could I feel sorry for the dog, who
sat there laughing like an idiot?
At first I couldn't believe what I saw,

the saw & the sawing done, &
the hirsute sawyer, but after 3 days
I believed it. I went to the doctor

to explain what I had seen, & he sd
you were drunk, but I explained that
I hadn't even started. He waved & sd

give me a call sometime, & put
into my hand 3 small lovely pills. So
I swallowed them, but did not call the Dr.—

choosing instead to return to the bar
where the bear had killed the dog.
What'll it be. A magic carpet, I sd.

So he bends over and what do you know,
stands back up with a rolled up carpet
& plops it onto the bar. I put a 20

on the polishd oak & sat conscientiously,
gazing both at the carpet & the bartender.
At last I workd up the courage to ask him:

If you painted a hole in a mountain w/ black
paint, would that constitute a tunnel?
He started laughing, laughing like an idiot.


19.

A dog & a bar walked into a bear,
and the bear sd, hey, what's the idea?
Just like that, like some guy getting

bullied by a couple of roughs in a bar
in Monterey, in a film made in the 40s.
So the dog laid into the bear, while

the bar just sat there, as bars will do,
& growled something fierce, growling
something, fiercely. But the bear held

his ground, & with his arms akimbo,
like somebody's domineering grandmother,
growled even louder, at which point

the dog pinned his ears to the side of
his head & apologized; but the bear
was having none of it, & suddenly threw

his arms wide, & brandished his claws,
when suddenly the bar stood up, by which
I mean became vertical, & loured over

the bear, who was daunted, having never
seen a bar do that kind of thing, & the bear
sd, hey, what's the idea, like a cowardly lion

in a film from the 30s, & stepped back,
dammit! right into a bear trap, at which
point the dog laughed & pointed, &

it was easy to see, by the look on his face,
that he was sure he had been avenged,
until the bar suddenly fell, & crushed him.

*

Reynolds & Midway 70

Telephond in from God, the teacher sd,

Leonard, when talking Beethoven mit Max

@ the piano, talking melody

& harmony—his agile fingers making music

out of the black & white, the on & off,

& that 1st symphony by Rachmaninoff

was gorgeous, inexplicably beautiful—

we switcht around, clickt here & there to list

to this & that, Brahms, Schumann, Mendelssohn,

saving Schubert for a time perceived

like glossolalia in a dream of gardens

where Keats & Severn arm in arm wld join us

in green, red & yellow leaves, for joyous

Bacchanalian revels, seeing him stand tiptoe

upon a little hill and name each flower

he saw & smell the queen's handwaving leaves

of oaks or maples ? willows ? that's never a willow

hearkening back to Monty always Python

in the skullcage rattling round & woody tinny

words & music violins & violence

of scrambling atoms subatomic particles

of Offenbach Rachmaninoff & Rachinoff

& Onandnoff, concerti for the clarinet,

bassoon, french horn & harp & flute & tuba

too. 

      Too much! he says & stands & leaves

the auditorium, there oughta be a

moratorium on woody tinny fluty

music. All this longhair stuff is stuffy as

a new tuxedo, bowtie strangling, how they do it?

bowing sawing tuning breathing piping

blowing!

7.16.16

Reynolds & Midway 67

We're almost there he sd, which means to make

Him supple again, wich means to flesh Him out,

Extend? perhaps Baruch would say & take

some soup or toke, for we had heard about

his fancy for a puff & liked his pipe.

It's something in this thing of one & aught,

some ancient, primal, irreducible pip

at the beginning, wich wld be a point.

But could it be that all we have is hope,

the truth of faith, the struggle for a hint

from Him, to whom we pray and raise a roof

and say it's a temple? Now, Midway ain't no saint

sd Reynolds, that's for sure, and if you want proof

just look him over, he's sick & thin & white,

and if there's any smoother, silkier calf

than his, I'm Lincoln's grandfather. That's right,

I says, & let me tell you all about it,

like Tuco, who had felt the rope pull tight,

& as for yr ass, you cld feel the devil bite it!

We're coming closer to the devil's tower

whan the 19 seventees became excited

w visions of alien & other than our

intelligence & machinery, whan dark invaders

walked our skies and workd w unseen power

& used the Force to stump the silly raiders

of Cosmos who had gone to the other side

& dumbly swung for Chaos 'gainst the Creator's

will. This Davies' 9th's no joke, than Midway sd

but hath a certain twang of Richard Strauss

leastways at's how it struck me in the head.

3.15.16

A Conversation Between Robert Browning & Wallace Stevens

A fancy restaurant, circa 1925.

B: Huzzah! My friend, what thinkst thou of my poem

Sordello?

S:          That Sordello of whom, or which,

Pound mentioned in his canto?

B:                                  That's the same.

Zooks, what's the hubbub there? Those waiters swivel

and swerve like dancers in Le Sacre du

Printemps. Hast seen it, Wallace? As a spirit

that lurk'd unseen, my keen unsubtanced eye

partook at—Paris, was it, or Verona?— Grr,

the memory fuddles e'en in afterlife!

S: Stravinsky's? Yes, but let's talk of Sordello.

I read the book, but like Lord Alfred, read

but two lines that seemed lucid, and the rest

mere huff and hum, a hullabaloo of words

put on the page to make poor widows wince

and scholars' fingers rush to dusty tomes

in search of fact and date.

B:                            Mere huff and hum

thou sayst? A hullabaloo of words!

Grr, Stevens, I had thought thee better read

than wincing widows. 'Zounds! that racket! Where's

my wine? But of Sordello, of my book

that critics found unworthy; my poor book

that left bluestockings and great men befuddled!

Zooks! Lizzy understood the thing, and more,

but what is that? The world is none the wiser

albeit a touch less patriarchal.

S:                                Hah!

Sweet Robert, have you found the time to look

at my Comedian as the Letter C?

Of all the scribblers come to Kingdom Come

I fancy you would find it to your taste.

B: What? Did you speak? Hoorah! The wine at last!

But hold, good sir, what's this? I said your best

chianti, in the bottle!  Take the glass

and bring a bottle ;  but make sure, thou knave,

the cork is stuck! If not, I'll have thy hide!

Lo! there he scampers. I'd not have his hide,

poor scamp, for I have yet a heart in me.

S: Forget it, Bob. Now where's that menu? Ah!

B: Zooks!  Look!

S:                  These prices! Ho! Harrumph. Harrumph.

7.30.15

Ditto and Kiddo: A Limerick

         for Liz Walker ("Ditto on the dodo")

There once was a boy bird named Ditto

who married a girl bird named Kiddo.

Kiddo didn't know, though,

that Ditto was a dodo,

and now poor Kiddo is a widow.

7.11.15

Blue Red

                for Tad Rapid & Tirds McGee

Blood is blue inside and red

outside ∴  Blue good, red bad.

Red: Alarm. Red stands

for police & ambulance.

Blue: Mel's Passion: Think

Gesthemane, in blue: Good.

Blue link, good link;

Red link, no link ∴ 

Blue good, red bad: Red light:

Stop, but green light—

wait, no, yellow that— wait

Red cross good, right?

Yes, right, right ∴  red cross

should be blue cross? And?

Blue Cross Blue Shield !

Cross is Christ, yes, and

plus sign tilted becomes an X and

x means times, that's right, and yes,

t means Time, of course, of course

∴  plus/minus one/zero equals a little and

of course a horse

is a horse of course

and Paul saw Peter

and Peter saw Paul

and 42

means

at all

6.20.15

2 Poems About a Bird and a Fish

           For Heather

1.

There once was a bird who loved a fish.

He thought the fish was quite a dish,

but the fish was playing hard to get,

and the bird got nothing, except     wet.

2.

There once was a fish who loved a bird.

The bird thought that was quite absurd,

so she chirrupped out a reprimand.

But the little fish didn't understand.

about a month ago

Reynolds & Midway 55

     I love a kitchen boy, and William is his name. - Steeleye Span [trad.]

Endless corridors, passageways, lights,

a sense of confusion, of having been

newborn, or born again, in some new world,

to seek out, strange, dark. Scotty. Born,

Dotty. Born. Yes, I remember, Oh My

Gawd.  Laughing. Daughters of some, bright-eyed

laughing daughters. Daughters. Tricorder.

Check. Mr Checkov. Checkov, run

a full sensor scan.  Off & on. Onward

rode the seven. 7 hundred. No.

it was 6 hundred. Six hundred men! Scotty.

The stars, you're fired mister. Dilithium.

Crystals. Dilithium. Lithium. Salt.

Water. What?s. I want answers. Speculate.

Spock. Spock. Please report to the. Quarters.

My quarters, Bones. Tricorders. Zones.

Neutral. Zone. Scotty! Dammit Bones.

Lieutenant. Yeoman Rand. Who is John Galt?

Yesyes lieutenant, I sd code. 2. Arm

phasersmister. You have yr orders.

6.11.2015

Limericks for a Few Friends & Fambly on National Limerick Day

There once was a lady named Heather,

Who liked going out in bad weather.

She danced as it rained

And never complained,

And then flew away like a feather.**

*

There once was a lady named Lorie,

whose life had a lot of backstory:

She'd model and hang

with some rockers who sang

of their days of hootch-induced glory.

*

There once was a lady named Jenny

Who went to the bank for a twenty

But it seemed that the teller

was an obstinate feller

And refused to give Jenny any.

*

There once was a girl named Tamara

who stole the gurl Billiam's tiara

to show she was queen

of the hospital scene

(in Havasu, not Guadalajara).

*

There once was a chimp named Unky

who was a spectacular monkey,

and his Uncle William

(a.k.a Billiam)

was a diehard Jethro Tull junkie.

*

There once was a boy named Jordan

who was really quite handsome, accordin'

to some; and he drew

lots of pictures, and knew

his Karate. So Don't piss off Jordan!

*

There once was a young man named Tirds

who had a great talent with words

that he got from his father

and also his mother

who both were poetry nerds.

^ for my eldest, Jared, who writes villanelles and groks Opeth lyrics. He calls himself Tirds McGee.

*

There once was a Mama named Kim

who always went out on a limb

for her babies. Her love was

as pure as that dove was

that Noah saw flying to him.

Most written on National Limerick Day, 3.12.15

**Co-authored by Heather Seip.

Reynolds & Midway 53

Perhaps it's time it's time 2 to begin the begin

again & again, sing all of the Michaels—mas-

ter Mikeys & Mikes, Tysons & tikes, the likes

of wich, sd he who leand or the Brooklyny

hare whod flattend is ears in fear & his spine

did then con cavi - cal - ly inward incline        |

Incline? No. Not the right word, I mean curve 

or push in, as Robert did push, but pushd out,

& outly a lot, like L a n c e l o t, who:  Ran &

ran & ran & ran & ran & ran & ran & ran &

ran & ran & ran & ran & ran & ran     until

the man with the thing in is mug in is tooth

SURPRISE! & waving & waving is brute

of a whacker did whack & make of the. Party

line is what they toed in there, Stan, thereby

it warrant yr place, yr proper place, where by

wid the power unvested in yooz we pronounce 

us free from argument, from chastisement, &

from immoderate wrath, whereupon. Countee

Cullen, you await   w/ Adonais             Wait

5.9.15

Reynolds & Midway 51

I can make a temple or church w my hands

it's easy, but to explain it, not, and I know

what yr thinking: not that thing we did as kids

with here's the steeple and look at all the

people—not that, w fingers waving. I mean

put them together, think symmetry, you are

sitting, look down at yr hands. Put your hands

together, as in prayer, then put some space

between yr palms, make like the letter A w

your fingertips touching equally, force out yr

knuckles, they are the boards, the woode that

made the walls of the church, now look at yr

thumbs: nails are, say, faces looking back at you

erect, standing: they stand close like houses whan

they made those houses huddle together like

people, in Amsterdam Rome Venice Napoli

Madrid Toledo etc. Have you got it yet? An idea

your hands made concrete, or was it the other

way around? Now the thumbs: let us leave below

the knuckles a wink of space, and that shall be

the door, and above the nails—and let the nails

be trimmd— there shall be, if you try, with 1 eye

closed (pick 0ne] a space shaped like a diamond,

perhaps a club, as in cards, not that which with

to beat or mutilate I mean that as in a deck of

to end in a preposition naturally and further up

above where those two little pinkies meet an-

other diamond shape or club, a window—

lookt at rightly, we may worship there.

2.24.15

The Fat Lady Sings

When compasses are all aligned

    and needles point to truest north

    we'll celebrate the coming forth

of man's recalibrated mind

and hold our hands and dance with glee

    upon the grave that is the world

    and see the flags of peace unfurled

across the heavens' canopy

in melted colour, vivid, flapping,

    thwicking thwacking in the wind

    and cry with faces drawn and thinned

from lack of sleep and endless clapping—

and when the bells ring in the new

    and ring the old convictions out

    we'll beat the square pegs in a rout

to clear the field for me and you

to build our global village up

    and raise our kids to think like us,

    without the politics and fuss,

and with our overrunning cup

of happiness and health we'll raise

    a toast for uniformity

    and comfortable conformity,

all clean and pressed for salad days,

like tender fishes in a tin,

    we'll thank the godless heavens for

    the loss of poverty and war

and for the blissful state we're in

until the twinkling stars above

    the cattletrucks have waned away

    and all the cows are home to stay

stuffed full of joy and peace and love.

12.16.14 

Reynolds and Midway 44

                                         for Gavin Douglas in Heaven

The durris and the windois all war breddit

With massie gold, quhairof the fynes scheddit.

With birneist euir baith Palace and towris

War theikit weill, maist craftelie that cled it,

For sa the quhitlie blanschit bone ouirspred it,

Midlit with gold anamalit all colouris,

Importurait of birdis and sweit flouris,

Curious knottis, and mony hie deuise,

Quhilks to behald war perfite paradise.

sd Reynolds, quoting from his pate as we

went wambling headlong in our revery

and reverént revéls, as Ian croond it,

not to ape good Father Hopkins, he

of that sprung rhythm, wich was taught to me

in mony a buik whose leaves instilléd glee

when I o'erturnd them w indéx and thumb

whan we were yonge and narrow, quhite and dumb,

but inky as a monk in a scriptorium.

Now what became of William's telling query

minds that grok in yrs not distant very,

wich to invert beyond what we'd expect,

and far beyond the good and necessary,

is but to lovely mimick one whose merry

lines in Yoda-speak made readers wary

and eyeballs tried and true and likewise weary

if not plain angry at such craft suspéct,

wich Dickey thoght, we thoght in retrospect,

but not w/o respect. Now w respect

to Bawby, wich is hér pronunciation,

who came from nigh on Pittsburgh there in Penn's

sylvania , where they tunneld through the mts,

as you can see when driving thro' the nation,

leastways that region [insert rime: think fountains,

think counting, think of Emmet who'd say countins]

close by those famous chocolate factories

whose smells were wafted sweetly on each breeze

that cloyingly wended. Bawby's skin is pale,

his Boddie° slender as a girl's, his wristes

narrow, knuckld bigly, but his fistes

never bunch to strike. He wld not wail

Medieval style on maiden nor on mail,

nor can he think a thoght that pugilistes

think when in a ring w other fighters

throwing hands like mony dicky blighters

taking waspies in the welkin.  Stale

the air of Bawby's close and small apartment,

wich May did open up when she wld visit—

she that she who hails from Pennsylvania,

whom we've written on above [revisit

stanza iv.] and have renamed w love,

whose eyes were ever on the stars above

the jagged peaks of brown and stunted hills

in something of a sort of astromania

(that of the astrological department,

not astronomy), whose cherry lips

did light on his that starry starry knight

when he did ope his mouth and shyly askd her:

May I kiss you , and she said, you may ,

wich isn't why I turnd her into May,

tho' you may think it. Such allowance taskd her

hardly, given God's Will to obey,

and man's; but none wld her deep love eclipse

come hell, highwater, or Apocalypse.

°for you, John, & thx.

- 6.18.14

Emmett Reckins The Road to Reality

When I was yonge some things were different than.

Wich is to say that I'm a different man

than who—or is it whom, or either or?—

I was befor. I herd that heretofore,

that God had up and made us out of stuff.

What stuff that is, I guest He had enough

to make a ball, and loads of other balls

Wich all strung up made His celestial halls

as bright as any diety could wish.

Let there be light, He said, and then some fish,

plus other varmints, sprang upon the earth,

wich was of vastitude and mighty girth

that some called Mother then, and do today,

but by some fancy name thats spelt this way:

Gaia. I learnt that spelling off of Bing,

wich is a kind of dictionary thing

like Yahoo, wich was long befor the age

of Goooooogle [note I splat there on the page,

like on my monitor, to many o's?

Looks kind of like a bowl of cheerios!]

See how I wandered off? My Pa once tolt me,

Emmett, pay attention!  Sure, he'd scolt me,

but I've a neck and shoulder stiff as any,

and I kin take a licking. I've had many

a boxing on the ear, plus a good whack

upon the nether part of this hear back,

as well as many a lashing by the tonge,

wich sometimes more than wallops often stung.

What I am on about is only that

the child is father of the man. Now what

that means is really simple. Just ask Wordsworth,

A poet who could tell you what a word's worth—

I know, I know! I stolt that rhyme, leastways

I think I might of. Might have?  Anyways,

the thing is, when your older, than you see

another version of Reality,

wich Roger Penrose wrote a book upon,

wich I in turn reviewed on Amazon.

I bougt it at St. Vinny's hear in town.

I mean that book of Roger's, who's no clown,

but is a mathematician and a physicist...

Hot dang!    The End.   [No rhymes for physicist.]

6.12.14