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The Shape-Shifter’s Serenade

Cassandra – foto by Smith


Weather report should
report whether tomorrow
be fair or despair

— Smith, 7-23-2011

There, that’s it, a surreal senryu, today’s claim for a poem.

Since 1964 I’ve written anywhere from a couple poems some years to 94 in others, and everything in between — and from 1975 through 1985 I wrote none at all, just did a lot of art and drank.

But I’ve been on a roll lately and decided to try to write a poem a day throughout July.

The first 21 days went smooth as a politician’s fingers in your pocket.

But I woke up dry yesterday and had to fake it by writing a poem about the well being dry (a decent though definite second shelf attempt).

Today I woke not only dry but busy, so went through last year’s back-pocket notepad and came up with the skeleton for this one, plus another dozen one-liners I can maybe seed some poems around.

I also found another surreal shorty in my lines-2-b-used file.

The Shape-Shifter’s Serenade

I used to date Miscellaneous
until she married
and became Mrs. Ellaneous

— Smith, 7-23-2011

Maybe they can count as today’s poem, even though the second sounds more like a standup comedian’s one-liner; so does the top one now that I reread it . . . perhaps in a skit by Steven Wright.

Here are a few Steven Wright lines for those not in the know:
“Support bacteria – they’re the only culture some people have.”
“When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.”
“If Barbie is so popular, why do you have to buy her friends?”
“Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.”
“Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.”
“Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now.”
“Shin: a device for finding furniture in the dark.”
“Join the Army, meet interesting people, kill them.”
“When I’m not in my right mind, my left mind gets pretty crowded.”
“Boycott shampoo! Demand the REAL poo!”

Only 8 more poems to write, but I don’t think I’m going to make it because my muse and style run more toward letting poems happen on their own — or at least on them insisting on a bit of birthing aid — rather than sitting down and writing them on a self-imposed schedule.

No parking – foto by Smith

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