(With apologies to Edward Gorey, the alphabet, and poetry in general)
A is for Andy, asleep in his bed.
B is for brain, boiling hot in my head.
C is for Celsius, one million degrees.
D is for death, come quickly, and please.
E is for everything, it sucks, ’cause it’s hot.
F is for FUCK YOU THAT’S WHY, YOU BIG SNOT.
G is for Gawd damn why am I not dead yet?
H is for Hell, where we’ve arrived now, I bet.
I is for icky, our moods and our feet.
J is for Jenni, who perished of heat.
K is for Kelvin, another fine scale.
L is for losing our minds as we wail.
M is for Mama, who can’t even think.
N is for nightcap, but it’s too hot to drink.
O is for OH LORD WHY TODAY?
P is for playground, with water that sprays.
Q is a question, a prayer and a plea.
R is for romance, GET AWAY FROM ME.
S is for sunshine, we got too much thanks.
T is for thunderstorm, absent our ranks.
U is umbrellas, packed safely away.
V is vagina, dripping sweat all fucking day.
W is water, there’s never enough.
X is for xylophone, because x is too tough.
Y is for yellow, the sun in the sky.
Z is for zebra, maybe a stampede will come by.
We floated alone on the sea, smooth as glass and green as absinthe, in a rowboat more appropriate for a Monet painting than the open ocean. He wore nothing but a plain white t-shirt and I’d placed a patio umbrella in the oar hold to shield us from the harsh moonlight (Luna shone down with a knowing smile and sleepy eyes). The boat lacked a bottom and we had no oars, yet we remained afloat and dry and moving slowly east. He looked at me – through me – like he could read my mind. “Nothing is free,” he whispered. “I know,” I replied, and slipped below the surface. From below, I could see him fashion a new boatmate from water like clay; she was tall, beautiful, dark-haired with perfect breasts. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.
Claude Monet, The Boat
1887, oil on canvas.
Museé Marmottan, Paris, France
I didn’t have any poetry yesterday, and the piece that flirted with my mind in the wee hours has proved to be a tease. I’ll try to win back the verse’s heart (something about taking solace at the base of an oak tree), but no guarantees. Instead, today you get a love poem, one published in the Winter 2004 issue of Northwest Passage, the literary journal I edited senior year at WOU. The author’s only listed by initials and it’s been too long for me to remember real names, but it’s a good piece. I don’t usually like love poems, but I ADORE stuff with a little twist at the end, hence my affection for Silverstein. In any case, enjoy.
Like a Dog
I love you like thunder
Pink and purple hues
I love you like a song
Harmony of string, voice
I love you like desert sun
Burning, radant, present
I love you like a river
Flowing, constant yet changing
I love you like a tern
Petite, playful, strong
I love you like a dog
I want to lick you