Thursday, December 21, 2017

Jeff Bagato - Three poems

1. All You Can Eat

                     Curling around a plate of nachos,
         an elephant trunk flexes
                          and twists
                                     as huffing hot, hot cheese
                               he gets brain burn
                and then icy,
                        eye-watering cold

                       Stars and bars flap in a pollen cloud,
                                       so that feeding nozzle
      snurked and sneezed a velveeta
                           hand grenade
                                            upon ol’ Sarah
                  Palin’s tour de force,
                              a new coat of yellow
                                         lipstick for a well-read        

                                    Snouts and nozzles
       being the envy of the free world—
                    all stripped bare
                            of their martyrs and fingerprints,
             smiles gone all smiley
                                       with a prozac psalm—
                       there’s a feasting frenzy
                                folly á deus

                   Lunging at the trough
                                       for bacon bits, flap-
                               doodle, scrapple
                       and thighs

                           The arc of crumbs and grease,
            forms a fountain of self-love,
                                                    an orgy
                                   of the undone

2. Second Comings

                        Wood bees wrestle in midair,
                                             buzz bombing the benches
                                 with moves
              like loop-de-loop graduates
                                                  of a death wish
                                       flying school;

                                           brushing my arm
                        with feathered wings
                                   flicking air,
                 ‘cause some lady bee doing all the work
                              has started a tunnel
                                                   in the wood slat
                                         at my elbow,

                                    but it’s like
                                             he doesn’t know he
                         don’t have a stinger
                                         and can’t do

                             Roman centurions gear up
             under Andrew Jackson’s elevated sword;
                                                 Jesus stands at the ready,
                                    blood painted
                 on his cheeks to carry
                                       again the cross,

                       as the trees flower in the warm
                                                      beauty of girls
                                   in summer dresses
                                           passing by,

                                 sore temptations to disrobe,
                     frolic in loin cloth,
                                       and toss that crown
                                                   of thorns in the air,
                            cheering and slapping five
                                   with the centurions,

             modern romans
                            raising digital eyes,
                                    while sandwiches and soft drinks
                  rise to faces blank and calm,
                                                      black clothes
                            solemn in the green
                                           pollenscented air

                                 White crowned with dreads,
                     the Rasta Sufi holds high
                                                   his staff, his denim
                                       skirt ripped from jeans
                           leaving legs free,
                                            and in his eyes his joy
                                                        his own
                                A sign of spring—
                                        gathering the brother-
                           hood of man

                                            and bee

3. Remember the Meme

                  With my wizard wand ablaze—
                                  a trap apart from all my demons—
                         not a mystery,
                                           not a shelter,
                            not a grave,

                                          I am homeless and all at home
                         as that whispering wand
                                              beams bright thoughts
                                                        and snappy notions
                               to the brains of all who gleam
                  and glory in their time,
                                                like angels
                                     who light the world
                                                    with a quiet word;

                      on a pinpoint of this light,
                                  these angels cast sweet auras outward
                                                like luciferous diamonds
                         guaranteed to last forever
                                      curled around
              some finger in a dike surrounding this city
                             illuminated with lies,
                                                       sweet lies—

                                          Golden lies
                                                 that ring and shine
                                 like a liberty bell
                    with a halogen clapper,
                                            flinging music that slings
                the clanging knees of a flapper
                                    flatfooting petroleum frolics
                                                         while the flood waters

                                           The river flashes up
                              past the ankles, up
                                                up past the bra strap,
                  past the parlors and the roof tops,
                                    ‘til it dances on the peaks
                                                              and crenellations,
                                      keeping us fleet and afloat
                       and flopping on the fires,

                                                  on the seas

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