Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Orville Redenbacher's Last Moments (a jacuzzi watercolor)

then there was this, lunatic-happy, bowtied to the red that dyes, well, half-so-much entirely alone, there’s this, hot water serenades, hybriding and fortunate in my Don-Knotts-stunt-double way, bubble-fed and going under, a pattering and then a puttering out, no longer to pop without shy fellows scrounging salted about in the bottom of cloudy teal Tupperware, and this I that’s a persistent ache that springs behind the crayon-color label, a looming doubt that smiles offhandedly and waves to the camera, then what’s to be made of this Brazilian-boy-turned-icon in the flush televised remains of outmoded ways of existing except the affectation of bonhomie and copy-cat morality, but strewn is the way, now, as all Valparaisos of the imagination must falter and fall and wilt in the crowding of the years, mostly it was gourmet appetites sated with the specious charm of relevance, mostly it was grab-and-go indifference, mostly it was this now that’s halting in the tracks of occlusion and rupture for a minute here, but when ma and pop went off to the golden prairie at the same time it was fate’s crapshoot and, well, that’s out of the clear blue and not worth munching on, if only I had my sousaphone now, still, yet there’s money to be made in industries of shit, I know, very much, I made mine, and so elephanting the watery gains of Lethe now, it suits well, in the silence, in the grainy mush of head swivels and tremors, in the tepid swirl of things the surface tension steams, wondering when the breaking point of this old hull will be reached, toothy cracker-jack smile at the moon, we get so involved in the tiny strains and puffed foam of our little lives and soon there becomes no room for others to budge in, saggy and cheaply drawing gulps, like spotting Clapper Rails hiding in reed beds, often enough turns to too much, and suspenders snap, Clark-Kent glasses break, a heart’s beating cranks and clanks into a Sisyphean task, minute explosions triggered by the thousand, sprinkled grains of indifference settling old scores, and what’s inside gets mushy and soft, and I am ready to expand, to eulogize, rocketing, a hurtle’s jarred flash, careening above butter-scuffed welts on the sky’s chute, filled with the starch of a life lived between fat dullness and flavor crazes, head slipping down, mouth agape, eyes bathed in chlorine’s tingle and sting, below, then there was this, under, then, drawing breath no more, there, leaving, was, stripped bare, this, unlikely and nothing-but-gone now, may all my yesterdays be fluffier and lighter in the kernels of the dust that remains.