Johnson County Poem #6
We are the sum of a hoax and a vowel.
—Haskell of Sardis, aka Haskell the Hogeye
The Jesuits came
today, blurring infinite
sorrows of camera
and Mom, leading us
into and anon
fragrant commodities
cousin, as a dark love.
Seasons retrieve
Caliban’s flagrant jest—
leaving blurred
commodious sorrows.
Mom, I confess
a Jesuit’s love is
fragrant below this
blurred eave: true
to a rathskeller’s
obsession, his cousin
is virgin and dark.
Johnson County Poem #8
Linen as the nougat of human formulae will
not remain linen for long.
—Haskell of Lake Ludwig
Dios Mio, Dios Figaro—
I confess an inborn
reluctance to chess, quiet
movement of the Arkansas.
Confess the secession, inborn
and reluctant, of Dios.
Mother mio, father figaro, dusk
does not quiet the Arkansas.
The secession of Bach
on an early stage he whimpers: tocattas
and chaconnes, reluctant
games of chess. At dusk—
no mother. Father will not quiet
the Arkansas's inborn confession.
Figaros of Arkansas, father—
figaros of mother and dusk!
Figaros of secession rolling,
into an inborn chaos, off the tongue.
Bach, my Bach, chess
will not clear the stage of your whimpering.
Why have you forsaken chess
rolling off the tongue until
Bach’s bright nipples
pierce the lips of Dios.
Mother? Father’s clear stage
is a figaro chaos can’t pronounce.
Dusk a la secession, a la whimpering
fugues, the mud to which
Arkansas returns. Dear Bach,
Dios Mio, Dios Figaro! Dusk
confesses to mother father’s bright
fugue. Processions of chaconnes
finally unfurl the tongue when the river
announces—figaro, figaro, figaro!
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