lost dustbowl wanderer
the narcissistic wind
holds its breath as it beholds a mirror
that’s propped upright somehow in the soil
of this outback no-man’s land
and sees 52 jokers reflected there
pauses for the briefest eyeblink
to ponder this vision
before flying off to whistle thru the eye sockets
of my ancient ancestor’s disembodied skull
some hours later
the wind returns in a rage
and blows over the mirror
blind cleric whose face shatters
into millions of tiny sunlit fangs that litter the hard scrabble
spelling certain doom for the omniscient narrator
who’s on sabbatical and approaching on-foot
thru this forsaken wasteland
dousing for water
but what the wind doesn’t know
is that in the omniscient narrator’s omniscience
he knows the wind will be overcome
with a crippling feeling of morbid remorse
over what it has done
and will weep uncontrollably and inconsolably
over the remains of said mirror
whose fragments wash away in the flood
of downpour tears
by the time the omniscient narrator
arrives on-scene as witness to this drama
the wind is beside itself w/ abysmal grief
while the rain has gathered into a growing pool
which finds its way underground
into a long-dry aquifer
and fills it to capacity;
being a shrewd venture capitalist
the omniscient narrator knows
to seize the illusive advantage of good timing
when an opportunity to profit emerges
an imaginary light-bulb
comes to life appearing out of thin air
where it hovers just inches above his head
as he realizes what fortunes people will part with
for super-natural bottled spring water
and as he jumps around Daffy Duck ecstatic
he is blissfully unaware
he’s about to drown in quicksand
Yup, same reaction. This is a quite fabulous poem but you packed so much in there visually, metaphor, and story-wise that it would take several readings with a very calm focused mind to get everything that’s in there.
Was this another result of Wallace Stevens or something all together different?
I’d love to hear The Underground Man’s thoughts on this one cause he seems to catch the tiniest sliver of meaning in every word.
Actually no Wallace Stevens poems were harmed in the making of this poem. Well, maybe Stevens did have his hand inside my puppet head for a spell while this poem was stewing in the crockpot along with all the carrots, leeks, brussels’ sprouts, shallots, fennell and swiss chard. I think Federico pessoa, Octavio Paz and Kerouak had more of an influence on me in the making of this poem though. Dali, Magritte and Duchamp have their bloody thumbprints all over this rag as well while Andy Warhol documented the goings-on with his super-8 in-hand. John Lydon (Rotten) may have snogged on it for good measure, too while Tori Amos hurled into a nearby spitoon, or was that Charolette Church - hard to tell them apart sometimes.
Loki in full effect,
lhw - AKA: The Straight-faced Clown
Whether or not you’re bored certified to make such a blanket diagnosis of this poem, I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s why I had so much fun writing it b/c I was guided by all the voices in my head at the time.
thanx as always btrfly
lhw - AKA: The Straight-faced Clown AKA: M.C. Tape-Hiss
