4.10 / October 2009

What if my Father Were a Poet?

I imagine breakfast
he and I ordering the eggs-
gelatinous yolks, pregnant with possibilities,
plopped atop their white rubbery volcano.

Our sandpaper toast brushing the membrane
igniting the slow motion eruption
of hot yellow magma
running rapidly through the hash browns.

We would laugh in iambic pentameter
at the puns and alliterations
on the breakfast menu at Denny’s-
The Fabulous French Toast,
Moons over My Hammy.

We would speak only in simile and metaphor
about our frumpy waitress
a kangaroo with short front paws
and an extraneous pouch.

She would find us an hour later
yolks solidified and chunky-
still struggling to find a slant rhyme
for syrup.
(I would use cheer up).

On the ride home
in our loud car with a snake of white
exhaust trailing us,
we would marvel at the marmalade sun and

My father,
(having an affinity for the haiku) would say-
The sun is melting
burning itself to purple
behind the blue sky.

On Googling “Verbs”

Intransitive verbs are verbs that express
a==c==t==i==o==n
without an object
to receive.
He laughed.
She cried.
He came.
She slept.

Transitive verbs are verbs that express
a==c==t==i==o==n
that terminates in
or is received by
an object.

He danced with another.
She made dinner.
He injected himself.
She walked out.

Linking verbs are verbs of the senses.
feel
look
smell                         taste.

linking the subject with its complement.

He is sad.
She eats alone.
He looks tired.
She feels sorry for him.

Passive verbs allow the subject
to receive the action…
(rather than doing it)

He fucks.
She gets fucked.

The Mothers

The mothers are crying again
and Oprah, like a plump barnyard hen
bobs and waddles her oversized hips
plucking the truth from their wet juicy lips.

They wince and moan about personal tombs,
and freedom ripped from their wombs
by the worse kind of thief,
the (intentional) accidental offspring.

Yet we uncross our legs
And give up our eggs-
Extinguish our bras
Before they are charred

And
step
back
wards
three
times.

And somewhere Gloria is
seething with =========rage
remembering the age
when she worked for
minimum wage.

Oprah has retreated to her nest
while the mothers return to house arrest-
milk dripping from their breasts
poisoned with discontent.

and the next time they see me
at Chucky Cheese
or Gymboree
they too will seethe-


4.10 / October 2009

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