Reading fridge magnets; surprised how interesting,
the world is when stamped into rubber decals.
Rome, Ankara, both Buda and Pest.
Watching a colorful rolling diorama,
pictographs tumbling over a flat white-scape.
Images recalling airport loudspeakers,
beeping taxi cabs and swaying camels.
I nod at a graphic depiction of a flight of pelicans,
bombing Florida,
imagine Sarasota sheltering under torrents of guano.
There is a decal from Mongolia, the magnet reads:
“Welcome to sunny Ulan Bator!" China is reduced to a
bowl of rice with dragons swooping for crumbs
much like London pidgins.
The Roman colosseum nudges Egyptian pyramids,
old lovers, slowly crumbling away.
I don’t see one for Ohio; maybe they only sell them
in Michigan…for target practice.
The fridge is a travel guide for those that sip morning coffee,
and wonder should they even get dressed today.
Through a bathroom mirror
a naked ape looks
at its reflection.
Waiting for coffee,
reading fridge magnets,
I'm surprised how interesting
the world is
when stamped into rubber decals.
Until now I've avoided
talking to myself.
I nod at a graphic depiction
of pelicans crap-bombing California.
"Yea," I say, rubbing my chin,
"go for it."
We paddle through small talk,
I like her, she has style.
I imagine we have a history together
back in an old movie that I have yet to see.
I begin to construct a lost and anecdotal life.
In another place we’re a vaudeville act
wisecracking between meal tickets.
Our home, a trunk covered in Midwest decals.
We share the occasional Spam sandwich,
theater gossip and sleaze; we cuddle
as we trundle along
long defunct rail tracks.
We date in elevators,
make out in a battered Oldsmobile.
In Bangkok, we share a ride in a Tuk-Tuk
careening down narrow streets.
On any sidewalk, we meet regularly
as reflections in windowpanes.
Today you’ve gone to Guatemala
to fight for a right.
Marimba music plays
as you climb up my spine.
Time now to rent more space
outside these traveling dreams.
The pickup truck ahead of us
Had decals on the glass,
The first a flag – American –
Like many cars we pass.
The second, a machine gun,
At an angle, all in white,
Announcing to the world
Someone is looking for a fight.
I guess interpretation
May arrive at different ends
But I’m pretty sure that driver
Wouldn’t be among my friends.
Reading my fridge magnets,
I’m surprised how interesting
the world is
when stamped into rubber decals.
Rome, Ankara, both Buda and Pest.
I watch an oscilloscope between my ears,
the spikes are a sort of travel language
spoken only by bedbugs and vagabonds.
I nod at a graphic depiction
of pelicans bombing Florida.
I remember you and Sarasota.
"Yea," I say, rubbing my chin,
Sarasota is where bedrooms bloom
in the morning light.
I don’t see a magnet for Ohio.
Maybe they sell them in Michigan…
for target practice.
Affluent and formal
pink lilies deck the tables;
we await the
sweet, affected
laughter of our friends.
Bedecked in bouffant hair-do's
perfumes, ermines, jewels
brocades and buckled shoes,
we dazzle, yes! We dazzle
with our mirrors, and our decals,
our precious art, and plaster,
exotic candelabras,
but I can't wait to make my
exit to wander in the gardens
and let the scented air restore
my soul
To get completely
lost in moonlight and
fragrance of the night
never to return,
to that balcony, nor
endure, the boring empty twitter
that temporary glitter.
I can barely wait till daylight to
mount my noble horse
and gallop miles and miles
and miles away.
To feel the solid earth resound
beneath his flying feet.
I have crossed that fragile threshold
into madness.
I can no longer be a Duchess
Suzanne Delaney
You're as cool as a parrot
who has to wear my fashion.
With just your leather jacket
to only share our passion.
With hair that's long and plenty
for making women jealous.
With neither of us sharing
Our women become zealous.
Our cars as fast as decals,
parked evenly in the lot.
Their windows dark and tinting
a view for which we've fought.
In jeans as tight as skinny
we share a sexy side.
With neither of us breathing.
Our lungs collapsed with pride.
To smoking in a group now
while blowing to our side.
And sharing what comes out of
a cancer for the ride.
Now crippled up in homes now
The years been kind to cool.
We're brothers in a sense now.
Decrepit and a fool.
It would not be such a stretch
To think that every kid
Drew pictures on an Etch-A-Sketch,
Like all my peers once did.
It was a toy that everyone
Possessed in his collection,
For it provided hours of fun
With no need for perfection.
‘Cause if you goofed, with just one shake
The screen went back to blank,
With not a trace of your mistake;
So someone we must thank:
His name was Andre; he was French,
A factory technician.
While using powders and a wrench,
He had an intuition.
He noticed particles that stuck,
By means of static charge,
To decals – what a stroke of luck!
His future was writ large.
It took some years to make the toy
And show it at a fair.
It was a hit and oh, what joy
For children everywhere.
Now Andre Cassagnes is dead
But we owe him our praise,
For Etch-A-Sketch remains a thread
Attached to childhood days.
you disturbed the wild geese as your truck
rushed out of the drive way my heart panted
as I noticed the peeling logo on the side
of the truck there were old ripped decals
and expired fishing permits my eyes turned red
piercing the glimmering headlights
I never even noticed how close you were
to my white tail reflecting underneath my brown coat
I read the logo while raising my head
from the soiled stain road it read bait and tackle
pink salmon reels hunting season
on brown bucks with white tails
Red paint upon this stage
Overdrive from electric strums
Crowds gather from every age
Knife decals cross on drums
Brand new fender blue tinge
Arrival at airports always delay
Noon prompts a drinking binge
Drunk ballads from music's cliche
I find myself around the backs of things.
A more comfortable reality it presents;
A dirty bowl that’s never refilled,
A rusted dumpster,
Pavement cracked and forgotten.
The hidden backs of things
Are what things really are;
Not painted in decals or brand names -
Just the working components;
The clock with no face -
Cogs and wheels,
Of plastic and steel.
There I am in an element
I can relate to.
I am the backs of things.
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