Fontegaia. To be continued...

2

 
I was lonely in the Fatso Tower.
Mangia, mangia! implored the Hungarian
waitress (my nemesis, my fate).  Someone
barged through an archaic swinging door -

 
was it you?  Or my Assemblyman?  Fair
deal, m'friend, he was shouting into his cell.
It's only a dream, he yelled.  Swell.
I tipped my left and got out of there (fast).
 

We have got roubles, methinks - right here 
in River City.  With a capital R and that
stands for Jail.  Lots of collars of a lariat
in a gray corral, Mister Fog - sheer

 
Poe-croquet, Froggy.  Malaise.  Oui.
The chirp of a pigeon on the Chom Ping
Lazy-A will never hazard me bowling
that egg scroll down me throat, Bobby.

 
Ideogram this, my Chinese characters!
Brain-drone croon-droogies - beyond pals!
The signals drip, pivot - halyards
slap, swivel - the whale-rim teeters

 
on its own spoke - Everylubber applies
his waddling gat against the shoulder, 
shirking... only, the sea is colder, colder.
Only the Transylvanian masseuse - the wise,

 
the amazing Miss Nile mid-USA (mass
Mattress of the Universe) - only she can spin
even this potted flashpunt toward one Parisian
plumb-bob.  Weave, Magdalenian - windlass!

 
3

 
Imagine, friend, a husky infant seedling
everywhere the same.  A sort of emerald
revolution, furled in jasper bronze.  Old,
yet still alive.  A kind of everyseed.

 
Coconut palm, perhaps - a milky sphere
lapped by dark and rugged threads.
Royal drink for an eagle Negus; mead
for a Queen Bea, victorious.  Sacred beer.

 
You searched for that pithy shell
like an under-Stanley for his living
Stone - paddling up, down - striving
through crystallized honey, pell-mell...

 
- but it can't be commanded, no,
nor imposed upon - only planted,
grown.  Meaning only (in the future)
what you find it locally, my loco friend -

 
the way the 2nd Coming keeps not-coming
except in your knotty heart, Pinetop.
A funny kind of phonautograph (post-op
encryption - ghost puffball thing-a-ming)...

 
She sings for Solomon's soul liberty
out of a sheepish seedling caravan -
make of it what you will, O lover-man.
It's like the storied storehouse, see,

 
of a maid on a maiden camel-trip -
like a man in the hold of a mosquito-
ship, a triple-whammy for a two-step
shamble, Sheba.  Break a leg.  Skip.