Found Poem #7

RECOGNITION

Imprisoned these nine months,

I wake to hard earned fantasy,

more fleeting than those soft dreams

that slip and swirl through coffee steam.

My jailer, cruel Argus, demands,

“It’s time, are you ready?”

“Giotto,” I yawn and roll against the wall.

He claps my back and disappears:

I am such a willing prisoner.

Light pushes through windows and blinds

beaded with nicotine like mist on a jaguar

that crawls across the carpet so slowly.

With bleared eyes, I wake the jailer

and beg an hour in the yard

where lizards skitter with scaled eyes

to deny my fears, as I am just out of bed;

I walk too fast, and it’s all for show,

stop to watch a black winged butterfly

hop across a patch of sky.

Back to a hot bath and my image in the mirror:

memory, fantasy, and impetus for sleep.

“Are you ready?”

“Kokoschka.”
“Good night.”

SK/1978

Little Diomede

LITTLE DIOMEDE

Those hovels are like barnacles on that rock island
rising from ice, a solid valley between the islands.
Where I stand on the carved landing strip.
I could throw a stone into tomorrow, into Russia.
This land of vicious, metaphorical winds
is calm now, sunny, sweater weather,
beautiful alien world that it is.
It often happens like that,
while what you want is hardship, torment.
Still, there is the namesake, Diomedes,
fed to his horses, but in this land,
dogs are dropped, one by one,
eaten by masters of labor and love,
until sure of destination, at least,
where they are fed and petted,
canine teeth clipped with pliers,
and that's how you survive
on the edge of civilization.
Some cringe, some do not,
but the teeth are clipped,
the dogs eaten.
Who knows the lives inside those baranacles,
those who willingly lash themselves
down for the deserted winter,
their only view, snow streaked Big Diomede,
a rock like theirs, but larger,
another country,
a day away,
a stone's throw?


SK/April 1994

Yo Yo Mama

Like a guitar,
he held her in his arms,
his fingers fretting at her buttons.

She took him between her legs,
playing him like a cello,
and, oh, how they moaned.


sk/nov 2017

Found Poem #6

AIRCRAFT MECHANIC WITH ARMS CROSSED

In a corner of the hangar

between beam and guidewire

is a spider’s web,

the spider motionless

at a distance from a pouch of eggs,

with some tiny spiders, barely visible,

emerging and moving outward

like an expanding galaxy.

As spiders are intrinsically evil,

attacking their hapless victims,

injecting them with poison,

and with eight needle legs,

working furiously,

to roll such sad flies and moths

 into living mummies

(the juice will be sucked later),

it seems somehow my duty

to strike a match, light a paper,

and hold it beneath the web,

ball of eggs and all,

but then I wonder

if any life

is better

than

no

life.  

  sk/1982

Found Poem #5

SEE YOU IN THE FUNNY PAPERS

Dagwood:  Blondie curves all over.  She gets extra lines for cleavage, breasts, her butt, and a simple V has you looking down from the Mound of Venus. All I get for my lines is a sort of baggy androgyny.  Her hair is always perfectly curled, while mine is a mess, sticks out like a little boy’s, like Alexander’s.  Poor Alexander.  He got my eyes, too, these ghoul eyes.  We should be wearing sheets.  At least he has decent clothes, modern clothes, and not this stupid tux with one button, a leftover from the good old days before Daddy wrote me out of his will. Tsk.  Then he lined me up with that skinflint Dithers.  I haven’t had a raise in fifty years.  What must Blondie, in all her perfection, think of me as she reads Colette and eats bonbons?  I’m sick of this stereotype.  I wouldn’t mind looking good for a change, looking like a real person, like a real man.  Sometimes I just want to punch the wall, but then Blondie would just hound me until I fixed it.

Blondie:  Dagwood is so lucky.  He gets all the action, and I’m seldom seen beyond the front door.  He’s human.  He works, hangs out at the water cooler, naps, makes sandwiches, argues with Mr. Dithers, Herb, and the mailman, and, gee, what a range of emotions!  If I’m not feigning a tear or smiling, I’m sitting around with this surprised expression, and I’m not surprised at all, really. I am not a manikin! Gosh, how I miss Boopadoop.  What fun I had!  But then the bottom fell out.  Big Daddy disowned us.  We had Alexander, then Cookie.  I’m not sure Dag finds me desirable anymore.  I had him read, “Madam Bovary.”  He didn’t get it.  Oh, he laughed and laughed, but he didn’t get it. I wouldn’t mind being human for a change. Sometimes I just want to scream, scream and…and throw dishes.  But we are on that darn budget.

Dagwood:  Blondie, honey, are you in bed?

Blondie:  Yes, dear. Are you coming?

Dagwood:  As soon as I finish this sandwich, sweetie. 


sk/84 

Found Poem #4

MUZZY MOON (in Tiny Tim Falsetto)

It’s a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon!

It’s a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon!

I see it in the sky, with its star up there so high,

It’s a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon!

I look at it, nod, and pray for peace,

and think of the atrocities in Nice.

It’s so pretty up above, why can’t we all love,

‘neath a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon.

Think of all those centuries in Crete,

where they fought and died, but never did beat feet.

The Moon’s still there to see, and all the Cretans free,

‘neath a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon.

Do what pleases you, but leave me be.

Like Kaepernick, with whom I disagree,

we have the right today to have our fucking say,

‘neath a muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon.

I have three gods up lounging in the blue,

and I don’t need another, but, thank you,

and if I lose my head, well, I’ll march on off to bed,

‘neath this muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy,

muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy,

muzzy, muzzy, muzzy, muzzy moon!

sk/2016 

Found Poem #3

ON LEAVE BEFORE SAILING TO BELFAST
ABOARD THE QUEEN MARY

There was little to do in Wheeling,
West Virginia, on leave, early forties,
with Clyde, drinking. The girls, he said,
were in church, so they went,
and, too, for the snake handling,
sat on the oak pew, right up front.
The serpents were sluggish at first,
coming up from the basement,
spilled, all tangled, from an orange crate,
but when they warmed, they crawled.
Clyde was laughing, whooping,
praising the Lord, while Steve
watched the floor, the baby
on a green blanket. The preacher,
spitting damnation in a snake's sleepy face,
approached, veered toward Steve,
"Do you believe in Jesus, soldier?"
Steve leaned back in the pew,
"Yeah, fella, I believe in Jesus,
but I don't trust that snake,
and if you don't get the son-of-a-bitch out
of my face right now, I'm going to deck you."
Clyde sobered, grabbed his friend.
They went outside,
hoping girls would follow.

sk/86