VERTIGO-CURL
It was a night of misty melting;
Hobo, the boho, sawed
through his dark glass so
in old St. Paul. Janus was hinging
everything on sister Sue’s nag,
at the racecourse (Mordish
Hippodrome) – his wish-
ful thinking left him holding the bag.
The sky mottled gray, like a blurred
chessboard of dirty snow.
An alleged RI rainbow
filtered through Amina’s pocket (mirrored
Pocahontas), while a Balkanized
cannibalism consumed
the demos, knocking Sue
Mixam to the maximum (paralyzed).
Irma admired the Emir’s muscle
from her stolen distance.
In that mossy manse
with her ear to the hearth, the hustle
all over the earth seemed a triangle
built by Souperior Deo
for a bonfire canoe
– his own, by Odin’s kayak! & to bungle
it was Man’s bad gamble. Sal
Miniato & Silo
Paennim could tell you
as much – ‘twas comet Groundhog’s tail
*
after all. So they went eel-gathering
all over Galilee for that
matter of Bretagne, mate –
the official King, along with his blathering
& corny Maid Minniver, his lovey-
dovey yaw-way L-vessel.
She would sail through hell
for old Ossifer Osiris – hand-in-glovey
with him, all the way! Ecstatic Itasca
purled in the tiny whorl
of her Vertigo-curl,
like a Topsfield spanner in Alaska!
She was very moving, that sheepish yak
shellacked in the clay. Like
an emerald in the smallest tyke
of a state, of all states – the Union, Jack!
She dwelt in the heart-hearth of Odd Eddy,
looming through mystic slips
like Evangeline E. Nilegnave (skips
across rocks down Jeannie’s Mississippi);
like a raven over Neva, like Anna
acting the dove in our eye
– is you serious, Rus? Why
risk ice for Osissyshipiris? In Louisiana?
Hobo says, I see our sis Lady Liberty
surge like Old Ironsides
through the fog, on this Ides
of July. Let’s go find her, Henry.
02.02.2020
