Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch
after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”
O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my ass in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, v-g-nal,
penile, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.
Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy
This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.”
The Mia Man was mad. Someone had stolen his pet dog. This was an automatic credit. He would get even. No matter the time line. The stolen dog was handsome and intelligent. His name was Peter.
Word went out a white and black dog was missing. 'Such a body', was the thief. Everybody knew him. Nobody dared move against him. Only the Mia Man could, should, would. He took his time. It was a big hangover.
Time to banish the enemy to the moon. The Mia Man knocked on 'Such a body's' door. Two riot guns, both Winchester and Remington, got a result. Mia Man pressed both triggers and kneecapped his enemy.
In seconds it was over. 'Such a body' was bundled into the space cadet capsule and the fuse was lit. The Mia Man upended the big steel kitchen table and hid. After a minute the rocket launched. Fizz, boom, whoosh!
'Such a body' was on the way to the moon. The dog didn't matter; he wasn't real. Peter the dog was made in Taiwan and plastic. With a fake woof and growl. Mia Man had just eradicated an enemy. Time for a beer.
Name your next ten children Trump
May all your twins be Donald's
I wish you a Merry Christmas too
With Happy Birthday visions of him
With surfer dude hair very wavy and thin
Almost life like and pretty pink
And may all your New Years be funky
Full of Trump and truck loads of money
Of guns and great walls of China
Made in Taiwan without tariffs
Make Trump your smiley face
I wish you good luck and fortune cookies
May all your corner stores grow large
With products all labeled Trump
Stop being who you are
Make America great again
Let all flags wave with hair
He has plenty left to spare
And spare parts if interested
Make peace on Earth
Make hallucinations linger
Make every moment count
Never give him the finger
God bless us everyone
Especially if your name is Trump
May all nations be united as one
I wish I was Trump
Don't you wish everyone was?
Anyone can take your name
and turn it into a shabby restaurant
or even a cheap chunk of silver
made in Taiwan
Capitalism is the deity of these times
but what is the price of a god?
Do you remember when your name
was placed sacred
upon the lips of men?
Once they brought wine and flowers
and the sweet smell of sunshine
into your shady grove
evoking mystery
and reverence of the divine
Now they seek to own you in ragged pieces
tearing flesh from your bones
consuming you spirit and soul
in one thick draught
Maybe one day these new gods too will be made into novelties-
jehova fish and chips
or jesus drycleaning
-these young, modern gods!
But time is a straight shot arrow
Nations live and die in one breath to you
and the names of gods are carved deep,
lasting far after
the bones of men crumble to dust
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