Alan Britt

 

 

(USA)

 

 

 

MEDITATION ON A THEME

 

Remember line drawings

of the Doublemint Twins diving

into a YMCA pool of freshness,

dissolving our lust beneath bathing caps

in one-piece black spandex suits

& teasing the shallow among us,

nipples nonexistent as the twins dove

into our nuclear mouths

full of the fresh taste?

 

But today we’re bombarded by paparazzi sexuality.

 

Neglected cigarettes wrinkle elephant trunks

across crystal ashtrays scratching for

peanuts, not just any peanuts

but phenomenological peanuts,

peanuts fallen from the sky when Noah

spotted a sliver of daylight sandwiched

deep inside that wrinkled monster

of the Old Testament.

 

But you gotta give it to the OT;

those stories are a hoot,

a hoot & a holler,

a holler & a hoot,

a hoot by any definition hoot.

 

Owl………♦………⅛………drop knees

to linoleum, English PhD. shoveling fries

with white papier-mâché hat pinched

to show disdain while watching parades

bleeding Main Street & wondering

if wives joining the circus

in Depression times made sense

just like covering one’s body

with rainbow ink means today.

 

If I had the scales,

I swear to god I’d open

a hamburger stand in Bali,

corn dogs with fried squid on the side,

burnt burgers with tomato, lettuce, pickles,

 

(continued/no break)

 

(page 2 of 2)…..MEDITATION ON A THEME…..(cont.)

 

exotic cheeses, & all the catsup & mustard

you could squeeze from chilled plastic bottles.

 

A burger stand in Bali,

devoid of taxes, devoid of idols

that shalt not covet other than me,

devoid of Buddha the 14th, he & Louie

a little overboard with the guillotine,

a bit overzealous is all;

it’s not their fault;

we enabled them.

 

Funny how life in retrospect resembles

a play, but life in the present can’t cultivate

the proper lexicon to unravel all the god

forsaken visions from the future sent

to rescue our morbid curiosity.

 

 

 

STERLING STRAWBERRIES

 

(For John Lennon)

 

Sterling strawberries hoisted high above the squatty

guru’s ephemeral place & time

along with cloudy grapes the size

of knuckles sifting the ether.

 

My cousin hit a baseball farther

than any kid within a 100 mile radius

that summer could; details forgotten now,

but I’m clear on one thing: the pink, purple

& chartreuse universe that appears each time

I tap leather heels against ivory piano keys,

you know, heels tapping like folks dazing

the up & down escalator, leather heels that

signal aliens invited for dinner; everyone’s got

a right to be nervous, but that anchor gets

tossed right out the bathroom window the way

she came in then out again & just when we

needed her the most . . .so, stay awhile…

. . . stay awhile . . . just until . . . . . . just until.

 

 

 

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

 

I move at shopping cart speed if

you’re a larvae, slower than dreaming

neocortex speed; expectations

priced like crude by the barrel, more

valuable than guns at this point,

& will be, I move, for foreseeable future.

 

One opaque white plastic block at a time,

occasional glass block notwithstanding—

you’ll need a construction manager,

one willing to solve this mystery,

one willing to ignore the whores

tumbling from the cardboard tower’s

tons of architectural fun

in a lonely bedroom, your igloo,

upon Seventh Avenue willing to

wipe his fingertips clean of microchips

buzzing frozen hips signaling

aureoles to attention, as though,

as though a farmer heralding his sheep

the only way he knows how. E

                                                 d  u

                                                        c

                                                 a

                                                        t   i

                                                               o n.

 

Underrated education is all it takes

to convince the farmer that consummating

his sheep is passé, no longer

(print your logo here!)

apropos . . . given the internet’s

5th cousin morphing into whatever

5th cousins morph into. Family portraits

go on forever. Your high school music teacher

fed you Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, & Romantic

violins’ hormonal heartbeats, thereby igniting

neurons incubating cots, munching Fritos®,

a splendid choice if you’re 26 & walking the dog,

neurons like boy & girl scout cookies,

with pecan & Louisiana pines speckling

a leopard slug’s back 13 generations

removed from the latest quid pro quo

 

(continued/no break)

 

(Page 2 of 2)…..FOOD FOR THOUGHT…..(cont.)

 

hanging chad electrons.

 

But this 13th generation removed slug

has something on his mind,

not the least of which involves

the letter « l » or the least of which

involves the least of which.

. .  .  .  .  .  . .

                                .    . .  .   .

    . .  .  .  .  .  . .

 

She fluffs her wedding veil revealing

her Blackberry® sex.

 

☎  ♪  ♫  ☯ ♬ ♩ ➳

 

Eyelashes juggle hot coals.

 

Eyelashes flutter, (against Debussy’s better

wishes), before spinning into fauns spotted

by sunlight forking the canopy floor

with searchlights driving oak leaves

halfway insane but otherwise

in good company: Bécquer, Beddoes,

Trakl, & Salvador Dalí feeding

our starving appetites.

 

                            

 

I say no one loves this stuff like I do.      

 

 

 
BRILLIANT DISGUISE

 

(After Bruce Springstein)

 

I smell of grease paint;

the gypsy files her nails on a Naugahyde sofa

below a 19″ blue tube.

 

Our future looks bright.

 

But when I toss my grease coat into the fire, I see

you huddled inside a broken down ’59 Coupe DeVille,

fingers laced as if to say, He means well, if only he

were a man of means.

 

I smell of grease paint;

the gypsy files her nails on a Naugahyde sofa

below a 19″ blue tube.

 

Our future looks bright.

 

I have my doubts.

 

 

 

SUFFRAGETTES AMONG US

 

(For Mary Wollstonecraft)

 

Bronze mask with scarlet son,

sans crest, nosing maple leaves:

banana-spotted & tobacco-stained.

 

Three peeps from Mom’s napalm

revolver & scarlet son traverses

the sunlit yard, disappearing

inside an emerald Norway maple.

 

Bronze mask pecks her left wing,

then her right, before shivering

in emerald mist lingering shadows

left over from the night before.

 

 

 

WAITING FOR THE GAME TO START

 

What if Jesus wore a uniform, a sand

dune jaguar-ringed camouflage uniform,

& carried 50 millimeter rounds? Do you

think he’d shoot to kill when the Romans,

balls dangling, the Romans came to arrest

him? Or do you think he’d turn the rounds

upon himself? My money’s on Divine

Providence; that way whatever happens

I’ll get my old age pension. Otherwise,

this Jesus stuff’s a bit overrated.

 

 

 

SIX

 

Bells . . . corroded . . . bells.

 

Organ puffing 14th century mahogany dust.

 

Voices braiding Alpaca yarn across winter thighs.

 

Women suspended ~ ~ ~ like ribbons dangling

Big Tops: chartreuse, lime, boysenberry,

& cobalt blue exposing collarbones

to lusty tongues.

 

Women ~ ~ ~ transcending opium

ponds somewhere on the edge

of our galaxy ~ ~ ~ women

with laser vision illuminating

every culture that’s ever existed

on this perplexing planet ~ ~ ~

let’s not forget that.

 

But the old organ’s ribs, visible Saturday,

~~~ by Monday he’s dead.

 

Bells, organ, voices, women dangling

& suspended from the rafters

of Cirque Italia, chartreuse, lime, boysenberry,

& bruised blues spraying astral light

across naked arms & walnut hair weightless

six feet under water, that is.

 

 

 

GILDED

 

This is about as gilded as she gets, I gather. This is more

about Morse Code than two crickets frolicking below

white fingerprints dusting three-leaf clovers, but as much,

I reckon, about inquisitions that for centuries reined

leaden hail on the houses of the holy, not to mention

heretics, some released from prison due to local DNA,

others expunged from the universe forever.

 

Still, she saunters, reptilian girdle & all, white plumed

aureoles fanning her satin waist, dusting old thoughts

across a doily of sentimental school days which she largely

detested; this dust plummets to rag carpet below—

plumes, don’t leave me stranded in my hollow soul!

she told me from the beginning I should explode.

 

A skeptic, I rebuffed until accidentally, fortuitously, one might

say, I brushed the ivory plumes of the gilded one . . . I in sleeveless

T-shirt, wife-beater I believe they call those much maligned

ribbed Guinea tees according to Stu, consummate project

manager, Stu Goldberg . . . born to run . . . born to lose sight

of it just long enough to become human.

.

         .

                 .

                        .     

                               .

                                      .     

                                             .

                                                    .

                                                         .

                                                       .

                                                    .

                                                 .

                                                  .

                                                      .

                                                            .

                                                                   .

                                                                           .

                                                                                  .She steps

through ether as though she were stepping into a Barfield play

wary of what’s right around the corner but a corner more

curious than the Cheshire Cat, so she enters with cockatoo

plumes sweeping away the marble floor’s rusted nightmares

& memories tattooing the faces of those she once knew

but have long since forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 

In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador for the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit he did TV, radio and newspaper interviews, read poetry and gave presentations in Quito, Otavalo, Ambatto, Guayaquil and Guaranda, plus the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo. He served as judge for the 2013 The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. He read poetry and presented the “Modern Trends in U.S. Poetry” at the VII International Writers’ Festival in Val-David, Canada, May 2013. Recent readings include the 6×3 Exhibition at the Jadite Gallery in Hell’s Kitchen/Manhattan in December 2014, the Fountain Street Fine Art Gallery in Framingham, MA in June 2014, and the Union City Museum of Art/William V. Musto Cultural Center in Union City, NJ sponsored by La Ruche Arts Contemporary Consortium (LRACC) in May, 2014.

 

 

His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. New interviews for Lake City Lights and Schuylkill Valley Journal are available at

 

http://lakecitypoets.com/AlanBritt.html and

www.svjlit.com/aninterviewwithalanbritt.

 

His latest books include Lost Among the Hours: 2015, Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013 and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview:

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/media/avfiles/poet-poem-alan-britt.mp3

Articles similaires

Tags

Partager