{Names are (d)deleted to help poetic license detour
away from straying into the zone of poetic justice.}
(d) Cub reporter fired after writing the sky was infused
with industrial pollutant that irritated his binocs
while riding a blimp's open gondola for the (d) newspaper
which wanted the naive kid to word-paint the sunset
glorious, swing the parent (d) corporation of the blimp
toward locating a new hdqs. in the paper's
(d) stronghold in (oops) IL. Don't send a child.
(d) Someone told Mercury only a few seem to wear
wings on their heels anymore, that the things there
now are wheels attached to boards ('d' was child)
Read bumper stickers on each side of its
rear bumper -- l., PASSING SIDE --
r., SUICIDE -- you were too damned close
to the fishtailing, flatbed killer, bring me your head.
Little voices forlorn on the wind, adult as well,
no wonder some consider entering a hermitude state
of mind. Hermitressitude, that looks even better.
Drek and dreg of various length of tooth hang around
on a rare chance that the next continental bus
will disgorge anything new. Gumbies never give it up.
Question: Can two be as content in one
the Gautama way? Answer: Seek it in meditation.
She had a way of shaking her head said -Yes-
Speculation can take one a long way.
The positive aspects of the word contra, if afforded
proper introspection, for example.
Atoll ukulele beach bar. The ultimate passion
paid in full with a hard-packed sandy floor,
oscillating palmetto fan. Banjo strumming. Sleep
till noon.
Stock the bar to stimulate roamers illusions.
Stock a Disarrono Originale, a liqueur of Italia.
And the vodka label saying imported from
Holland, for true believers.
Misogynist. Son-of-a-bitch. All men are created
equal rights to earn to be called one.
Women, of worthiness, can be named hurricanes.
Reporters of all eras, from single sheets of paper
human-fed-flatbed press, to the endless spools of
whole pages on a rotary press -- and there is no sound
nor feel in the world like the rotary's vibrant
thrumming of you to the bone -- into today's generally
dispassionate offset printing . . . no matter
what personal or newsroom aggravations intrude
(a touch of managed news?) . . . at the next
run of editorial staff copy from whatever
vintage press, reporters will take heart, again, like
children unwrapping a treasure.
As the Scarlets of Tara, like the Annies of
the world -- 'Tomorrow, tomorrow' - old reporters
don't fade away, they just keep punching
keyboards.
Women, tough, ruthless, incurable romantics.
I will, on my birthstone I swear -- I will not lie.
I am liar, cheat and coward,
shell gamer, shop lifter,
defraud orphans, widows,
lifted your wallet, a drunk,
your watch, drugs, too? --
pop, goes the weasel,
ancient metaphor could
mean anything.
Seducer, betrayer,
apetures and plumbing
functions immaterial,
sopping vaginas
centerfolds prime
times filing project
born to shock
mother, she would say.
As if there had been a mother.
True believer in nothing
born on don't you
wish you knew
the numbers confirm stars'
positions or not, not
lying is not the same
as telling the
truth, caughtcha.
I am, I want.
I want.
Want, want. That is no lie.
Phillip A. Waterhouse's poetry has appeared in RE:AL Journal of Liberal Arts among several others. This is his second appearance in Gnome.