by grimbeau


The temptation to waffle about memories is maple syrup,

something about marked cards, that sort of gooey stuff.

& The very thought of getting into that is just plain


Not that I am denying it,

you understand

I just don’t want

to go through all of that.

here and now is where it’s never at.

So, here it is.

Plaintive baroque trumpet sighs

Fanfare, mazurka, and microwave tympani.

Brief running tap crescendo. Mug clunk, bottle top slide.

Faraway, out of sight, a libation is incubating.

The soft clock needs a pacemaker.

Something black is scraped.

A dog crunches twiglets.


the  spray distorted blowing of a nose.

A strong clunk of mug.

An awakening.

Something ominous issues from the brass section.

The clock temporarily revives.

An unclear, disembodied voice rings

& reads out an address and claims

that now we have Tchaikovsky for company…

Coughs from above.

An ailing whaling gull?

Creation elation eschews

a humming loo,

Five short bursts enough

precision bombing.

Second wave,

chalk comes up.

The ball was in, man!