Issue 1, Poetry

My World Tour

Moulin Abstract/medium, 1912

In Dodgeville where they cling to soil,
the seniors bring the pots to boil
and silence serves as such a crown,
you won’t come up once you’ve gone down.
In Arizona writers eat
green lotion off the sailors’ feet
and cushions that are full of pins
are almost Thomas Edison’s.
In England, on a foreign strand,
the ducks all fit inside your hand
and ladies in a decent bog
are looking for a decent log.
In Russia by the arctic pole
a nut can brood and have a soul.
A soulful nutshell there may tan
the hide for fun of any man.
The poem goes on…

In Georgia rocks bathe in the mud
and rocks read minds and rocks drink blood.
Their faces glow in Plato’s Cave
so polaroids will misbehave.
In Cincinnati paper plays
on Jeopardy, its lines ablaze
with facts so droll and erudite
you’ll want to watch it win all night.
In Beijing, babies mock the cows
along back roads to pointless vows,
which cows think that to masticate
a hunk of mud’s a damn good fate.
In Britain— here we go again—
to clip the wings of yonder hen
is not a step in preppin’ food,
but rather a pastoral interlude.
In Madagascar, chapters tease
at later chapters just to please
their hated masters under pain
of being chucked out in the rain.
In Bismarck heavy hammers cure
the wounds they strike as in a blur.
Anonymously, records spin
dull adverts for the theremin.
In Mexico we’re keeping sane
by bowling down a shiny lane
three nights a week come rain or sun
cuz bowling’s dumb and bowling’s fun.
In Nashville where the crumbs consume
I breathe in hard to hock a plume
of bad wasabi on the road
and crumbs set at it a la mode.
The poem nears its end…

In Raleigh, gals all grow up small,
and I discourage kids to call
a bluff at any time before
their feet don’t need to meet the floor.
Thanks for coming on my world tour.