Disgruntled, Largesse (while playing Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega...)

 

 

 

Genesis, Talmud thick shoe-box panel

16-bit, Aquatic sting ray-control pad

With three alphabetical nipples

And a side cross, arrows to

arouse  antipodal thumb, orienting

on-screen avatar

doppelganger of heralded blips

plosive whips

Nemesis of 8-bit, potent  somehow

Failed to compete with 

 Chipped  tri-forces

Mushrooms, smattering question marks

 Ethnic Plumbers melted in fairy tales.

 

Plus Nintendo had a power glove

Which Warren Cunningham down the street

Claimed he wore while untucking

The glossy drape of

Miss March 1989, hoping

To transmogrify his body

With armored strokes.

 

 

We found ourselves looking at it

An electrocuted pet

Hamster scurrying through plastic tubes

Neon meadows, springboards

Accelerated embryonic whorls

Oscillating like an escaped table saw

 

through circuitous scampers

Flouncing in purrs and whizzes (and)

For some inexplicable reason wearing sneakers

Always in a hurry, blessing

The forehead of frenzied

 animals in calculated bonks

Whooshing through the stalks

Japanese trees swirling

360 loop as the earth

Openly flees from its

 gravitational manacles

free-falling ellipse

(plus he rescued bunnies!!!)

 

 Thwarting the nefarious

Antics of Doctor Robotonik

Who hovered in a translucent pulpit

Attired in pastoral robes, we thought

 

Surely this mammal would save us all.

 

 

 

 

How later in life I thought about

Sonic wishing I could vertically

Trounce across cyber leas and digitalized

Gulches, the earth offering rings,

Largesse, complimentary chemical

Currency, dangling gratis buds

Ferrying you to an infinite

Credit dream world if

Only to be truncated

By jutting stalactites

Piercing in gnawing sprouts

From the bottom of the screen.   

 

 

 

 

 

Disgruntled as fuck,

 

Wanting to sped up faster

Skip the in the beginning

Nothing but darkness, hewed

Hedgehog out of light

 

 

Sega genesis

 first book in the pew

bible, a call to Christian fellowship

Pausing in medias worship

To rededicate one’s self

Time, talents treasure

To something

We will never understand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

--for Russ Disbro

Cumbo

Tucked behind the dyslexic hump of your pillow

upside down ring bearer of blessings

Lavender chrome beaker shaped odalisque

standing all by itself, alone

Different from the rest

The precocious fourth grader who rises

Just a little bit taller than her peers

In the center of the volleyball court

who secretly reads Judy Blume

during silent reading falling

inside her body through words

picturing her uterus

a rococo fountain in Versailles

 

The instrument who,

like its loopy earlobe mammalian namesake

Never quite found its place

Among the neon aisles of ribbed trinkets and jolting purrs

Ostracized by the carnival of other sex toys

battery-operated harlequin scepter

Victory cigar chomped on the wrong end

In exile

Simply for being too large with a

Silo tip that looks like something

The artist formerly known as Prince

Would secretly squat on when no one is looking.

 

Punk bamboo spouted

From the soil

Stemmed somewhere

between earth and dreams

 

Alone, witnessing its own mother

Perform outlandish lewd

Acts involving bondage

To keep the heat turned on the winter

you were all of three

 

And how when first you clutched

me in your palm that night

 

As if learning how to drive stick for the first time

 

I wanted to break into your body secretly at first

With a flashlight and ski-mask

A wished-for burglar

Entering quickly through

A half-opened side window of your anatomy

Ransacking your drawers in tornadic fury

Removing the Seraut above your bed

Locating the fireproof safe

Where your every dream is stowed

Hoping to find the combination of your pulse

Lapsing in quick rapid thrust of my trunk

 

Not realizing that you wanted

Me to dissolve inside you

Slowly, to become part of your smile

Part of your experience

Scaling up the ladder of

Love and loss

One teetering rung at a time

In the stuttered apprehension of martyred saints

Staring into a kiddie pool of failure below

Unsure of the place you need your body to go

Groping the purple baton like a magic feather

That somehow will help you to fly

 

--scribed with love for Megan “Combo” canella… double n’s…two g’s

If you were my gay father and I, your brazenly lesbian heir

 

I would follow your gaunt silhouette

 Against a static backdrop of black

 And white frames impeccable

Labyrinth,  antique furniture

With Daedalus wings constructed

out of wire hangers, crisp altar

 boy haircut hoping you would fall in love

Hoping you would notice

The subtle idiosyncratic pinch

My fingers slicing the gap

Between your palms

Shuffling through polaroid’s

 naked high school football players

posing after you bought them beer.

If you were my gay father and I,

Your lesbian heir I would

Bathe naked with you in Beech Creek

Forming a geodesic alphabet with

The neck of my limbs,

a public free swim

chlorine nipples buoyed

groomed musk of your neck

wanting you to breath me

into the ocean

 with the laconic

tic of your tongue.

If you were my gay father

I would pin barrette’s in your

scalp, read you Kate Millet

As you rotisseried in the sun

 Polish the bulb on every closet door

With scepters of Joy, whistle

Bicentennial chorus, boys

With the packages resembling

three-cornered hats, boutonnière

neon shingles illuminating overhead.

 

 

 

 

 

If you were my gay father

And I your lesbian heir

I would lie supine, listless in

The Mortuary you inhabited from your mother

Allow you to dissect my flesh

Incise my lower abdomen with

Grade school scissors, Elmers glue

 Grope my organs with latex

 dactyls, all

in the Sisyphus of your wrists.

 

 

 

 

 

If you were my gay father

And I, your brazenly lesbian heir

I would voluntarily

Walk with you

Into the flush of afternoon traffic

 A Beam of sun,  a high-

Pitched shriek, the velocity

Taste of chrome kissed

Cement

Planting myself over your grave

My heart, a concrete phallus

Odalisque  the chimney

To a fun home

We never found.

 

 

 

--Inspired by the tragicomic graphic novel FUN HOME by Alison Bechedel 

 

--written for Barbara Antoniazzi w. hugs...

Give me a (sin) gular word and I shall write a poem just for you...

Coming this January...

 

 

... a poem every Friday of 2014 scribed for someone I love ore than life, and I love lot..



 

 

 

                                  ..give me a word and I will make you immortal as long as you are here...