"whitefish" poems
THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated ********* here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.
5.5k
Moby ****
may have been
a
big
BIG
fish
and Ishmael
didn't have it so easy
But I need, I dream
of the epitome
of a flawless
ideal
piece of whitefish
A Succulent Bite
A Taste of Right
Hand battered
Deep fried
A
crunch
into heaven
Mouth-watering
yet light
Next to
crisp
oh-so
crisp
fries
Draft Rootbeer
Foam
in a mug
of delight
Mmmm Mmmmm
Seafood
See, this food
tastes like hope
Up North
I salivate
thinking of its
taste
thinking of
perfection
Man
Oh, Man
They don't make it
like this
anymore
So
so
fresh
This piece
Creates a sense
of peace
Harmony
on your palate
It turns
you up-turned nose
down
to the aroma
of a fisherman's skill
Natural Salt
of this world
brings you to a world
of pleasure
in a nibble
A coming together
on my plate
Skin-lined
Red Skin
potatoes
Frothy
Quenching
Rootbeer
Whitefish.
Simple Things
I found this fine trip
Combined with waterfall air
to breathe deep
My taste buds
had
gone up in
smoke.
My tongue
realized with
surprise
the possibilities of life.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
good old television
or televisions plural because
this shop window has
twenty-two of them
all showing a celebrity
cooking show twenty-two
identical pans containing
the same cuts of chicken
or maybe pork or whitefish
being lightly browned while
no voice can be heard from
the twenty-two tanned faces
smiling out at us and
here the homeless man
watches them all from the
pavement and the rain
good old television
something for everyone
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC