Painting by Yazan Khalifeh
Addicted to Bra-Flinging
I rise bleary-eyed to the eerie sounds
of the night birds squawking,
flying wing to wing with the bats,
in order to drive fast deep into the arms
of brown icy fog, on isolated roads
through sleeping suburbs, with only barking dogs
and randy raccoons serenading me as
I scurry like a shadow midst tall firs
and scattered adobe structures, pale white beneath
the harvest moon scowling down, moonbeams
dancing with the winter’s breath that proceeds me
into my dark building, along black hallways,
only to sequester myself alone in my office,
anxiously activating my computer in order
to stroke my horny blog, and several others
for delicious hours before people stir around me,
before sweet old blind men gather
at my door, needing my expertise, my knowledge,
my compassion, and most of my attention;
yet even mired in teaching, deep in explication,
behind my twinkling corneas I treasure
the everlasting joys of Jannie
out there in the cyber void
of Funsterland.
Glenn Buttkus February 2009
1 comment:
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this, Glenn; some eerie familiarity of sounds and images running through it reminded me of my Old Man's Dog poem. I placed you in my poem as the "silent figure slices through night’s dark," "past shadow-flits among tall trees," and "watching - waiting - agitating." Your poem, I think, would work well as a companion piece to mine; both evoke a kind of skulking around dark places in an anxious state. What do you think? lol
I loved reading your poem's navigation through foreboding passages in the dark, images of night, restlessness, then anxious anticipation interspersed with the necessities of your work day, and culminating in a very pleasant place of remembrance. :)
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