Orchestration Dilemma

If you have one part and all eight are playing on the other part in unison and Ditka is driving the bus on a thursday, how many tubas could you fit in a rocket ship?

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Stop Him!

Stop him, stop that man

Running through the streets,

Even moving under them––

The man with the yellow bow tie!

In the city the policemen are playing hopscotch,

Since they’ve already thrown bumpy cinnamon waffles

Today beneath all the citizens’ illicit sitting spots.

The cats are baking in the kitchen,

And the children are taking in naps,

While onerous nylon pants run gaily by this spot.

Stop him, he laid some hands on my cello!

Douglas, the Asparagus

To be precise I am a blue asparagus…

Technically speaking, a blue and green asparagus.

There may be those among you unaware of this,

But do not despair of it:

It is fair to say that in the arrogant era of today,

Paranoid with partiality, we make little effort

For all our show to accommodate for the unknown needs

Of a growing-grey asparagus—

A growing-grey though blue and green asparagus, that is,

With a passion for horse-shoe playing.

All’s Fare in Love and Grammar

The most romantic grammatical error in the English language is the comma splice.  There is nothing quite so lexically coquettish as the prospect of bringing together two utterly independent clauses, from the most disparate of origins, and joining them face to face in audacious effrontery to all that grammarians hold sacred.  It brings blush to one’s cheeks just to think of how close they are–without a period, without a conjunction, without even so much as a lousy semicolon to keep them apart!  So formidable!  So bad!  An editor would be remise to overlook a scandal like that, and that’s why they have rules to prevent such things.  All parallel clauses must always dance at least an arm’s length away from each other.  These sorts of rules can be burdensome at times.  But no obstacle is insurmountable, love has a way of working things out.

Love Sonnet

She is a masterpiece as excellent

As the cracks in the Mona Lisa.

A work of art as almost beautiful

As the mold on a squirmy armadillo.

Can I compare her to a jubilant hairy lobster?

Or is she equalled by the immaculate weeping watermelons?

She is more lovely than the shattered shards

Of exquisite Grecian pottery,

And more realistic than a crocodile

Who swims all day in tart and tasty lipstick.

The missing pieces

Of the mansion Parthenon,

The breathtaking breaks

In a Yellowstone precipice,

The brown part

Of a rotten bow tie.

She is more to me than all of these,

And now I have a kangaroo nose of my own.

I think that I must be in love,

But it could be indigestion—

Only Lee or a bad burrito

Could make me feel this way.

She smells much better than a bad burrito.

She doesn’t fit at all inside the rigid barbed wire,

But she is a misshaped gratuitous extraneous rupture

In a canvass that forever disrupts the regular flow of purple tea.

So what is the best type of story to tell a toddler with pointy teeth?

Wisdom

That which befalls a nose,

By Benny, brother James,

Would be called a kangaroo.

You’ll understand when you’re older—

The panda bear doesn’t really know

How to chew bamboo.

But for now, you should know

To never accept a loan from a shark,

Somehow lucid advice,

To never reject a respectable lethargic-caterpillar enchilada,

That’s a little bit better, but the best suggestion of all

Is to never ever never fall in love.

Eventually, brother James, Mom and Dad

Will actually explain the extra insects and the birds to you,

But take my word that love is like a loopy fruit loop.

When I hold his hand

I am a towering pizza mountain of insomnia

That runs over the resplendent ocean

In brilliant bays of fiery luminescence.

I have a thousand evanescent peanut butter flies

Shooting out of all my incandescent beaming eyes,

And my golden finger nails are as shiny as the outer space.

Do all dogs really know how to play the virtuosic ukulele?

I noticed the man without a friendly fellow go by in his rowboat,

And I don’t care any more about my crocodile.

I’m sorry, brother James—

I can’t explain it.

READ THE PREVIOUS POEM IN

“THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW BOW TIE”

Date Knight

This place is a mess.

It’s crawling with dress-shoe laces

Running about with furious hordes

Of angry clipboards, slippery paperclips,

And a tangy apricot sloppily sneezing from Peru.

I think I left the casserole in the oven too long,

Because it’s beginning to laugh at me and call me names.

There’s somebody banging about in the closet,

A pair thumping its thumb on the counter,

My fishes swim around on the television,

And the rounder of the flounders is falling in the cauliflower

While a Metaphysician profoundly wishes

To call a philosophical question into question.

So let me call the lovely flower Lee—

Does any one have tickets to the comic opera tonight?

I think I left mine inside the funny machine—

She and I will go tonight

To see the amusing poetaster

Performing publicly,

The man with the yellow bow tie,

But it could be terrible

For all I care.

The casserole is furious with me,

And sometimes it is strange

How we see ourselves in art.

READ THE PREVIOUS OR THE NEXT POEM IN

“THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW BOW TIE”