Let us leave the obedience school. The door is open. Outside the sun is shining. Why do you hesitate? Why do you hold back? If there were some warts on the obedience school we should have known about it before this. You don't learn the cancan at obedience school. Yup. But the parkway night is festering. Besides, there are so many trained-dog acts now nobody wants any competition. That's why I bought Flossie the ticket back to Puyallup. Her ladies-in-waiting were flouting the scent of incense smouldering; her high heels provoked "zounds!" of acclaim from the wrong kind of gent-customer we want no truck with. And when the old school shudders in a sudden ray of March sun, accusers and behoovers alike will be believed; behemoths and mammoths struggle and give up in the aquarium dawn. Then a run on the feed stores ensues. Causes are given up for lost. The queen's pony capers on its hind legs, quite as if narcissism were going out of style. Poor children! Why, it broke their heart, but Dad's with them now. Dad can conquer this thing.
Something was about to go laughably wrong, whether directly at home or here, on this random shoal pleading with its eyes till it too breaks loose, caught in a hail of references. I’ll add one more scoop to the pile of retail.
Hey, you’re doing it, like I didn’t tell you to, my sinking laundry boat, point of departure, my white pomegranate, my swizzle stick. We’re leaving again of our own volition for bogus patterned plains streaked by canals, maybe. Amorous ghosts will pursue us for a time, but sometimes they get, you know, confused and forget to stop when we do, as they continue to populate this fertile land with their own bizarre self-imaginings. Here’s hoping the referral goes tidily, O brother. Chime authoritatively with the pop-ups and extras. Keep your units pliable and folded, the recourse a mere specter, like you have it coming to you, awash with the new day and its abominable antithesis, OK? Don’t be able to make that distinction.
No changes of support—only Patches of gray, here where sunlight fell. The house seems heavier Now that they have gone away. In fact it emptied in record time. When the flat table used to result A match recedes, slowly, into the night. The academy of the future is Opening its doors and willing The fruitless sunlight streams into domes, The chairs piled high with books and papers.
The sedate one is this month’s skittish one Confirming the property that, A timeless value, has changed hands. And you could have a new automobile Ping pong set and garage, but the thief Stole everything like a miracle. In his book there was a picture of treason only And in the garden, cries and colors.
EARLY MORNING BLOGS 804 - IT SURE WAS PLEASANT TO SPEND A DAY IN THE COUNTRY
Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape
The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits in thunder, Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country." Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched Her cleft chin's solitary hair. She remembered spinach
And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach. "M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched The part of his head under his hat. The apartment Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country."
Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country. Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in. "How pleasant!" But Swee'pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. "Thunder And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall Popeye's apartment Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched."
Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment And all that it contains, myself and spinach In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant
Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder." She grabbed Swee'pea. "I'm taking the brat to the country." "But you can't do that--he hasn't even finished his spinach," Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.
But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment Succumbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it's quite pleasant Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from spinach Then I don't mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"--she scratched One dug pensively--"but Wimpy is such a country Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder
Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder, The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.
Old cathedrals, old markets, good and firm things And old streets, one always feels intercepted As they walk quickly past, no nonsense, cabbages And turnips, the way they get put into songs:
One needn't feel offended Or shut out just because the slow purpose Under it is evident, Because someone is simply there.
Yet it's a relief to look up To the moist, imprecise sky, Thrashing about in loneliness, Inconsolable...
There has to be a heart to this. The words are there already. Just because the river looks like it's flowing backwards Doesn't mean that motion doesn't mean something, That it's incorrect as a metaphor.
And the way stones sink, So gracefully, Doesn't rob them of the dignity Of their cantankerous gravity.
They are what they are and what they seem. Maybe our not getting closer to them Puts some kind of shine on us We didn't consent to, As though we were someone's car: Large, animated, calm.
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