by Paul Maziar
They don’t use cars much here in Venice
Unreal traffic and the people change slowly
Now and then I go veering
Brains abluster from the pastry décor
(That’s what my situationist neighbor calls it)
Which has begun to look familiar
Postmodern or postmortem?
I’ll never get over the alps
Sure I’m pissed
But I’m no morose type
Hopping from planet to planet
Bringing joy whenever I go
Inverses appeal to me
The tenor steps aside for the flautist
Virginia O’Brien’s deadpan lullaby kills me every time
If I had blood I’d be blushing
Lately I’m all electric brain
(That’s what my landlady says)
I try to find time not gravely for others
Reading under an elm at the cemetery
She said she’d like more sincere friends
That made me laugh which pissed her off
When the connection got fuzzy I didn’t speak up
I simply cut the line
I’m still in the book
Much later night fell kerplunk on the guggenheim grotto
And there was music without wrinkles
Venetian water tastes pissy
For comic effect
I feel funny
But nobody’s laughing at this jubilee
Rose eats a nectarine in the sun
With bubbles in her hair
She’s getting loose with a jerk
Wearing pince nez and fake hair
He takes a pebble out of her slipper
And swallows it
She’s afloat
Everything not feathers is a goner
Which makes me feel funnier
Human cannonball or comet scene
Isn’t laughter the proper response?
Well I’m not going to apologize
My heart is doing a bolero