In
the Crook of Your Arm I Hear America Singing
by Thomas Wooten
No was the long
answer. No was the short answer. No was the dead dead
center of the miasma cocktail she’d been partaking
of since tikedom. In other words, she was trapped
in the medulla oblongata of the American brain serving
burger grease to electronic teens, name Lola dangling
from her titty tag.
*
--You want sumthin you take it.
--I want.
--Yeah, you always want but you got
no idee how to get.
--You help me?
--You got sumthin I want?
--I got this here. I got these.
--We wurk sumthin out.
*
Luff is no laffin matter. Luff is serious
bidnesss bumped up to highest pitch of engorgement
with signifiers. Luff make all of matter dance cheek-to-cheek
on head of pin. From De Pooetic of Aristotle Onassis.
Smooch me.
*
--You unnerstand sumthin.
--Yeah?
--Bout me.
--Yeah?
--I’m a giver.
--Yeah?
--Yeah. I give. I sense first off you
a taker. But that’s ok. I’m not sayin nuthins wrong
with that.
--I don’t know.
--What?
--I always thought I was a giver too.
--Yeah?
--Yeah.
--That’s ok.
--Yeah?
--We wurk sumthin out.
*
Alls she wanted was a little trip to
the shore, a small moment under the blue washcloth,
maybe a few fleecy bumptious snaggletoothed clouds
doing their slow glide. Stand with her feet in the
bubbly, foamy tarsals captivated by the amorous attentions
of a large portion of the earth’s salinity, her body
in smile mode from itchy follicle to shiny toenail.
Smell your arm. Ain’t that divine. Salt of the earth
is what we are and what we’re going to be if shopping
don’t take over the world. You can’t pave over the
sound of flesh feeding on its little need to be shellacked
with the fundament’s ooze. From time to time.
*
--Here. I got this for you.
--What is it?
--Open it and see.
--OK.
--That’s special paper. It’s made from
trees that never was alive.
--Yeah?
--Yeah. They call it recycle paper.
--But … the trees was …
--What?
--I should save it anyway. For maybe
Christmas. Wrap presents at Christmas.
--Yeah. That’s a good idea. Recycle
the recycle. You got some brain.
--Hey!
--Yeah. I thought you’d like it.
--It’s great. I mean, it’s really great.
I love it.
--Yeah. I wudn sure of the color though.
But I thought with your eyes.
--Oh yeah. I can see that. I really
can.
--I’m glad you like it. I wudn sure.
I thought maybe. Well, you know.
--Yeah. I know. And I really like it.
One thing.
--Yeah?
--What is it?
*
So. The years. They zoom. The long,
the short, the epic digitized. America. He gets his,
she gets hers. Children. Paneling. Sod. Matching set
of andirons. They get chubby together. America. A
few less trees, a few more dry wells, no place dark
enough to stand to show a kid what a star looks like
so many strip malls with that good high-security lamp
beaming SAFE TO GO TO YOUR VEHICLE NOW. No matter.
This ain’t no sermon. This is a human story. Warm
milk all around. Everybody having a fine time, plenty
of storage space in all the rooms. Hand-to-hand combat
down the corridors. Don’t matter. No worry. Lie down.
Take a load off. Maybe a little nap before supper.
*
--You know what?
--What?
--Shoe trees.
--Yeah?
--A good investment.
--Yeah?
--Only kinda trees mama allow.
*
You smell maccow roasting seven days
a week you think heaven’s a piece of sand pissing
on your toes too. Give somebody you love your arm
tonight. Tell em to breathe in real slow. Watch they
eyes.
*
--You got sumthin you wanna say?
--No.
--Me neither.
--You seen the remote?
