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rejectomorph

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Placid [Feb. 6th, 2011|11:24 pm]
rejectomorph
I love Superbowl Sunday. The stores are as near empty as they ever get— as long as you avoid the halftime beer rush. The streets are nearly deserted. Empty asphalt gleams, unsullied by cars, block after block. It is quiet. All the noise has been corralled into houses and bars. There the fans guzzle and shout. Meanwhile I shop quickly and pass contented along the deserted street, home to my quiet, uncompetitive dinner. Better than Christmas.



Sunday Verse


Ode to Hangover


by Dean Young


Hangover, you drive me into the yard
to dig holes as a way of working through you
as one might work through a sorry childhood
by riding the forbidden amusement park rides
as a grown-up until puking. Alas, I feel like
something spit out by a duck, a duck
other ducks are ashamed of when I only
tried to protect myself by projecting myself
on hilarity's big screen at the party
where one nitwit reminisced about the 39 cents
a pound chicken of his youth and another said,
Don't go to Italy in June, no one goes to Italy in June.
Protect myself from boring advice,
from the boring past and the boring present
at the expense of an unnauseating future:
now. But look at these newly-socketed lilacs!
Without you, Hangover, they would still be
trapped in their buckets and not become
the opposite of vomit just as you, Hangover,
are the opposite of Orgasm. Certainly
you go on too long and in your grip
one thinks, How to have you never again?
whereas Orgasm lasts too short some seconds
and immediately one plots to repeat her.
After her I could eat a car but here's
a pineapple/clam pizza and Chinese milkshake
yum but Hangover, you make me aspire
to a saltine. Both of you need to lie down,
one with a cool rag across the brow, shutters
drawn, the other in a soft jungle gym, yahoo,
this puzzle has 15 thousand solutions!
Here's one called Rocking Horse
and how about Sunshine in the Monkey Tree.
Chug, chug, goes the arriving train,
those on the platform toss their hats and scarves
and cheer, the president comes out of the caboose
to declare, The war is over! Corks popping,
people mashing people, knocking over melon stands,
ripping millenniums of bodices. Hangover,
rest now, you'll have lots to do later
inspiring abstemious philosophies and menial tasks
that too contribute to the beauty of this world.

linkReply

Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2011-02-07 12:47 pm (UTC)
the priest at my church yesterday called the superbowl our national high liturgy. glad you enjoyed those empty streets and stores. *g*

amusing poem!
(Reply) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2011-02-08 02:36 am (UTC)
The poem was for yesterday's partiers who have hangovers today. But this guy's local friends are probably still celebrating.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2011-02-08 02:49 am (UTC)
oh yeah, i bet so! :D
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)