so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chicken
-william carlos williams, 1923
no ideas but in things, says williams. pictorial. red of the barrow ricocheting off, leaping forth, landing on lily white chickens, using rain. color's little vessels. gyrating rain. pogo stick pellets of it jumping up and down on every thing encompassing. the whole world is moving. poets nod to williams. some shake. we all respond. shapely, poignant, dull, prosaic; it's all of these things and it depends on the mood. i might've been feeling cheeky.
i respond as a fictitious agent. my friends laughed. my father said it was disgusting. scatological. he thinks i talk about excrement too much. he says "what's up with you and caca?" and i say dad, it's unavoidable. maybe my teenage boy taste in fiction is taking its toll. then i sent him an e-mail with this gem of a Bukowski excerpt.
“WHAT'S WRONG WITH ASSHOLES, BABY? YOU'VE GOT AN ASSHOLE, I'VE GOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU GO TO THE STORE AND BUY A PORTERHOUSE STEAK, THAT HAD AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLES COVER THE EARTH! IN A WAY TREES HAVE ASSHOLES BUT YOU CAN'T FIND THEM, THEY JUST DROP THEIR LEAVES. YOUR ASSHOLE, MY ASSHOLE, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BILLIONS OF ASSHOLES. THE PRESIDENT HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE CARWASH BOY HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE JUDGE AND THE MURDERER HAVE ASSHOLES . . . EVEN THE PURPLE STICKINPIN HAS AN ASSHOLE!”
-charles bukowski, post office
when i told him i got a standing ovation, he laughed at me and said "yeah ok, you're clever, but i can't speak for the trained seals who applauded it." when i got touchy, he told me to stop bitching and get something published.
ok dad. this father of mine. this literary fascist. this one's for you. and it's filled with shit.
what the fuck is this carlos? goddamn wheelbarrow? are you shitting me? in my mouth?
hey carlos, i've got a poem for you. it's about broads, baby.
so much depends
upon
a red tampon
it's about the ethical implications of an overly sexual and masturbatory generation of flappers. you dipshit.
next time just send me a photo of your grandma taking a dump.
see you saturday at 8. helen says to bring your potato salad.
try it on for size at home? when you're bored and your cat making muffins on your chest is the only physical contact you've had in months. take a poem, maybe from norton's anthology? the internet? the holy fucking internet at your disposal. miraculous. and maybe mimic the syntax, the diction, the shape. be a dick and rip it a new asshole. be a lover and write it your praise. take a break from the cat. or the excessive amounts of noodles. interstellar domination through poetry and its subsequent disfigurement. fun with friends.
farewell whoever
