from Downtown Brooklyn #15

MAYBE THURSDAY SHE CAN SLEEP

My sweet little Victoria is an electric doorbell & she loads up on bagels. My lovely Victoria is a fantastic portal (from here to there) & she loads up on Batman. My fascinating Victoria is efficient & she loads up on oven timers & she paraphrases Little Boy & Fat Man with every move she makes & she knows it. My mysterious Victoria is an alchemist & when she plays billiards, it’s on stilts & she’s queen of the night & she don’t take no lip. My sexy Victoria is a carnival barker & she loads up on castor oil for what ails me. My sweet Victoria cultivates a fine garden & she can read my mind & she loads up on bootleg whiskey. My smirking Victoria isn’t afraid to put in her two cents on the topic of professional vacuuming & she holds a mean grudge (so look out!) & she do like her waterbeds. My sweet Victoria is a badass & she plays guitar in a rock & roll band & every Halloween she puts together the sexiest witch costume you’ve ever seen. My eccentric Victoria is the world’s most fabulous gymnast & she is better than you in every way & every night she consumes vast quantities of spiced ham & she churns out poems that change the world & she knows it.


HERE THERE BE DREAMS OF MONSTERS

At this time, the poem will tell of my eating toast under the watchful eyes of Penelope (dog) & Huckleberry (dog). Now comes the section about my putting off the required bundling of metal & plastic recyclables. Such a beginning to a poem (somewhat understandably) makes you squint your eyes & shift your weight & consider moving on to something else—but you decide to give it a little longer. Then, as if sensing your restlessness, the poem offers some excellent financial advice & fixes you a brilliant cup of coffee & makes you forget all about your troubles & suspicions. Perhaps it won’t be a total waste of time & money to read a little more. Oh, here’s the obligatory political section! Unfashionably right-wing, I’m afraid, so keep your fingers & toes safely inside the vehicle at all times. Then there’s this fabulous stuff about the history of fish & here’s some delightful onomatopoeia—which makes you fall in love again with the idea of me. As might have been expected, the appearance of the word “hearth” makes you get up & walk out but then you come back in & apologize. Kind of puts a damper on things, if you want to know the truth. Stanley (three-legged cat) follows me into the bathroom & jumps up & drinks out of the sink. I need to get a Crock Pot.


SEX IS ONLY DIRTY IF YOU DO IT RIGHT SAID THE PIRATE

The old gardener grows tired of treading water more quickly than he used to. It’s much worse than being made to dance for two hours. At the end of the day, he’s happy for the jumping to be over as well. When you mention jogging down by the sea, he says I ain’t lost a thing down by the sea. All he knows is he gets up and drives to work every day. Maybe he wouldn’t even mind the jumping so much if he got a steak afterwards. His daughter Sarah shouts at his grandson, who appears to have avoided studying for the last nine weeks. Don’t them fool teachers notice when you go missing for days at the time? The old man pretends to listen to her & he nods his head but he’s really watching the TV & he’s wondering whether news announcers dislike their jumping as much as he dislikes his. Sarah informs him that his little niece won’t stop dropping things in the well, but he can’t think of too much to say. What good would it do? The pilots seem to enjoy jogging. He used to love dancing & when Suzanne was alive, he liked skiing among the trees. He picks up his fork & tries some flattery: Don't you practice cooking nicely? He used to like to eat at home. Now he somehow regrets walking so carefully & running so carelessly.