.
Medicines may cure me. Let me
try two doses of the two you’ve
got on hand. The orange
jell-pop and the purple platypussy
malt-ball seem to me to intimate
the sorts of shapes and content
that my body might bestir
itself to understand. Though look at me
predicting the proclivities of flesh
amid its endless incivilities!
.
As if I knew a thing about it. (A
voluptuously heightened softness
of the skin first beckons to,
then quickly silences within, its ardent
promises, while dreaming oddly of
how thin it got at a Ramada Inn,
where it in fact had never been.)
But medicines may cure. Or at least
.
assure me taking pills that others
swear undo all ills, I’ll not be
thought a pillzy-bird about to flop
into oblivion. Yes, it throws a pall
o’er the sheboygan* that one
ever might predict a single thing from
medicine prefiguring a single symptom’s
next remove. The tease it is! –
.
courting flesh and its
amenabilities: producing first, then closing up
(fed up with musical abandon)
all its pretty overtures and shutting
itself down, no, not for good, but
for the opportunity to demonstrate
its own hegemony by reaching in
to haul its specious certainties
out from its sack. One of which
is that whatever I may think of it,
.
I probably won’t change my
surname to a simpler thing than
Kettelhack. No pre-visionary mystic
business that. It all too volubly
delights in what it is: three
syllables to be ho-hummèdly collected
if not recollected in the
archives of its Zeitgeist’s renal glands as fizz.
.
Never mind that I can’t find a
damned bit of it listed in The Wiz
Department in the boudoir of
the Allegories on the Second Floor
which feeds the sieve that is
eternally the way we get a “new” thing
from an “old.” Don’t ask me how
that works. I’ve not been told.
.
.
.
Native
American word meaning “noise underground” or “river underground”
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