fanciful stewpots keep on truckin’
yes, i’m sorry to say, the universe keeps shorting out and
facing those of us with faces with all kinds of hotch-potches
or whatyouwill, messes of horrifying pronouncements from some
that being said, when my face got left on the bus seat, afortneight
past, i stamped and screwed my neck into some kind of socket.
and here’s where i’m hoping that some jolt, some pearly jag
of inspiration will flood out to me old fingertips.
(might as well do something, while the face lingers on a bus-seat,
roving hither and far about the place, in a proscribed and
what strange new world will i see, when the face returns to me?
(and who knows what upon what strange sights my bodiless eyes
will alight, when slipping off the seat and sliding along that
greasy bussed floor? who knows what new sleights will fill my
brain when that face slots back into place?)
you might think i’m staggering about the place, with my eyes agone
from me, but, no. with some assistance from my floating mushroom
sense (all aboard the mushroom train! fetch a good price down ta
market!), i cavail and traipse around the town. the only thing
i’m missing, is that cracked schedule for the bus. i’m always
(not hearing) sensing that metallized contraption roaring past
in oil and in dust. (does my face
so separated from me
wince and mutter in distate at that frumy missing? or… is
it pale and flat? scouring all connection between us? or and
when my face–the key with which others unlock my deepest
heart?–is finally returned to me, will we like lovers greet?
or will we eye each others, down and back, like strangers
in the street?) without my eyes, i sense strange auras,
feel the gritty salt beneath my toes and wish the sea
would come back now, and o! i wish to taste the salty salty
sea! and smell that…
what small price to pay? and i wonder: has anyone found my
face, just lying there? or with a lurch of thought, might
they trade their face for mine? so when i finally stumble
up the hydroponic bus ramp (i mean, hydraulic) and shove my
crumbled dollar down that sticky ticket box, and shuffle my
slow and dancing way up the aisle seats, feeling those
curious eyeballs flow along beside me, glance, notlook, beside.
sitting down in some curved seat, feeling with my glowing
whorling fingertips a face aside of me. will i feel some
strange mustachio or perhaps some slimy lipstick coating lips
or ringed nose? will i feel betrayed by these strange
entrappings? or will i thrill to some new thing and
slide that changed face into place?