the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 466, Feb. 18, 2004
Ellen Jaffe (1945- )
“Everyone’s
running around
with no place
to go
looking for
someone to make love to,
looking for
someone but no love to give.”
—Marvin Pontiac*, “Runnin’ Round” from
the album Legendary Marvin Pontiac
By Lee Ingalls
I was puzzling over the orange juices at Marsh’s Sunfresh, a shining and super-colossal city of comestibles, when a woman wheeling a nearby shopping cart asked me if I was a romantic person.
“Yes I am,” I replied with an uncharacteristic lack of hesitation. My answer pleased her.
“You see?” she said to her shopping companion, a woman of about the same age who could have been a sister or a girlfriend. “I could tell by what you had in your cart.”
“I’m glad to see that it shows,” I said as they moved off and quickly checked the contents of my cart: two bottles of red wine, Italian pasta in a sky-blue box, olive oil, tomatoes, garlic, a package of sausages (!), bananas (!!)—all you’d really need to add was condoms and a Barry White album.
Looking down, I noticed that my fly was open.
*An interesting footnote to
today’s epigram: Marvin Pontiac is a part-time persona of legendary
jack-of-all-musical-genre John Lurie. The Legendary Marvin Pontiac is a study in what free-form jazz, rock and roll,
island music, africana, and new york all might sound like after Lurie put them
into the KitchenAid for a long, slow turn. It’s funny, angry, fresh, and fun.
You should put it on for a long, slow turn.
What really rocks is this
entry lifted directly from the amazon.com Web site, which, though exposing the
soft underbelly of corporate giantism, is surprisingly apropos:
Customers interested in Marvin Pontiac may
also be interested in:
*Discount Vehicle Program
Pontiac Vehicle Purchase Program. Rebates,
Incentives, Forms, Quotes. http://www.supplierprograms.com
Today’s poem:
back then
when the hills were
too big
we walked our
bikes
to fire hydrant
rest stops
with tomatoes
from Everly’s garden
apples from
Cole’s tree
strawberries,
hot and sweet,
from the pyramid
beneath
back home
hot rubber hose
water
until it ran
cold
bare feet in
cool grass
then, a scramble
for the corner
of the house,
formulate a lie
make up another
story
the same as the
last
it’s funny today
to remember
how good stolen
fruit tastes
eaten under hot
sun, bike propped
against a knee,
and the way
hose water
tastes once it runs cold—
and how we’re
still hiding
in the bushes
from the man in
the back door
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