Snow, –0!0! and cosmos..si?

So I’m driving home, it’s after dark..and I’m all alone! and it’s white-out conditions, –just like, like typing a poem on dish here typewriter, banging away, knocking one out; and I hit the wrong key and make a mistake; or the whole sentence was a mistake; or maybe I should never have started in on the poetry-thing in the first place, and now there’s not enough white-out at Target, or elsewhere, in the known universe to fix it..and get it handled; so we won’t have to worry. And now I’m dicking with, with comma’s! and what-not (and the spell-checker doesn’t like my verbal appropriation of a common noun..Dick! oh well, he doesn’t like a lot if you know what I’m saying,SAYING! –by the bye my pronouns are: me, myself; and EYE). But anyway there I am. Worrying. So I got home by the way, but it was a real squeaker..snow falling so thick it looks like you could’ve slammed the car into a snow-laden tree and have it all fall onto your hood (and right before it landed, that’s what you saw in your view, in your windshield, driving, yeah! like driving through a frigid waterfall inna ice-forest..total white-out).

Now, next morning, I start the fire, pets come around for that and I make the coffee with a medium roast, just received, from the port city, Harrar Ethiopia through some roaster in New Jersey..by e-bay, named Abdullah, that I was not happy about, –the seller’s claim: “It’s our favorite around the warehouse.” Well it’s not mine! around mine..too! YOU drink that!! (it’s just totally lacking the earthy robustness, and wine-ey, fruity-nutty notes I crave, –no, coffee will never be the same like it was, pre-$tarbuck$ that’s for sure..got a poem about that, gonna share it sometime). Anyway cats are being belligerent, yowling at me, the dog wants out, the yellow-white, –dog, a golden. The storm quit happening now and stars are gently visible in cotton-candy skies as day is, too, breaking..soon. And so I tether her by her collar-ring and make the trek downstairs to the back-yard (cats can wait), and now I notice I’m forgetting to type some of the letters that are part of strings that make up the whole of words forming po-ems, gee! it really sucks when the poet is getting as old as his writing’s (so I see in all my reviews), and so I say It’s a good thing..yes! a very good thing there’s adequate stores of virtual white-out in this, ‘typewriter’ what-cha-ma-call-it, ah, mac-thing to at least, uh, make the effort to fix it so it’ll be handled..and I won’t have to worry. See how easy it was making a great poem?? (with a minimum of hassle). Well..I better cut to the chase, in terms of the poetry..poetry, it’s supposed to be short and to the point, so that’s where that’s at..anyway, –MY POINT!

We got snow and that’s all I’m seeing, and in through the gate into the back-yard goes the dog like flushing the toilet..followed by the poet holding the leash, –and what does the poet see? there, in the back yard. First there’s all this white stuff, about three feet of it, and then over there where the dog went there’s a little yellow spot in a straight line to ground, we may surmise, so, figuratively! with a little spade work..are poets still allowed to use whatever words they want? like, if I don’t like homonyms and I don’t want to use a homonym..even where it might be advisable, am I then a homonym-o-phobe? and would that be a bad thing?? (notice I popped the handy if/then proposition in there, basis for all ‘typwriter’ programming, get it,GET IT? yeah??) but, so..if I work a, uh, say a flat shovel on it, and dump some metaphor for ‘white-out’ upon it to cover the yellow snow..and make it all white again, –then we’re okay, right? or is the snow guilty because of its whiteness?? and what about the yellow? (ponder that) But, –I’ll get back to the main idea, which is:all I am seeing is snow..sort of like THE CAT..IN-THE-RED-CHINESE-COMMUNIST-HAT COMES BACK (from Red Square, comrades) except it’s not all pink like that, and virally spreading like..like commie-pinko-fags do, yeah! left-wing knee-jerk li-ber-al ones at that, in fact, –in fag’t. But that’s neither que’er nor ‘quare..as in E=mc..2 (‘quare). But leave us not go nu-Q-lur, here, on account of not mincing wart’s..Pul-leaze! (my producer’s pointing at his watch), –okay,

okay the poem! the poem! here ’tis..forget about the science it’s junk anyway (her goes):

I saw only the snow..’cause I looked only below; then, when I raise my gaze..high above the snow I see da moon, it looked like a giant ice-ball, hanging, bright! there, in all da gloom. And it made me think, thus: Since science-guys are always walking out all their square, way-out theories and ideas and stories and such, –then why? oh why! can’t a poet, too, –(like me) write it out! (his ideal of beauty) since poems are a form of reasoning you know why can’t a poet formulate cause-and-effect’s, just like the big boy’s do? A-D DO?? I’m only aksing! it’s just questions, so,So! as I go on..I’m going, I suspected, that since the moon, at about the winter’s solstice..in the scheme of seasonal trans-migrations, matches the snowy plain, in all respects (not just one): colours, textures, tones and timbres, et cetera,TIM-BER-R-R!! and I don’t mean to be a pain! but isn’t it just possible that the first cause of that snow-ballish moon – hung high in the sky like a EYE..looking at me!WHY? – was a giant meteor slamming in a Siberian desert, one cold, and very cold, icy summer morning..or thereabout’s, long, long ago..and the vul-can-ic heat, and all the other na-tur-al forces, they shmooped ’em a bunch of that ice and snow..and fire! yeah!! like wild horses, they had to go; and it got, it all..went up in space, you know? like shlepping a big, bleached, frozen lava-wax lump equal’s, –instant moon! (too soon). Well it’s all science anyways, so put that in your medical marijuana hash-pipe and sh-moke it! ya wanna? Lib’s?? humbug!

Steve’s cat, there

Published by scrunchymacscruff

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