BONUS POST! BONUS SATURDAY POST! BONUS LAST DAY of the month of MAY POST! BONUS NEW ORLEANS POST! Post # 7(b.): “For Clarity” by The Rarefied Air Mattresses

“For Clarity”

Clarity calls
through the speaker
of the brown phone receiver as
A carcass of
Car Keys
spirals within
A dirt
devil
on the high plains
beef or me

Turns out she’s seven months in and can’t deal with the blowback that would come with
A Short Haircut.
Ain’t she got No Luck?

Our Son who art an arsonist
Hallowed be the names, farts, sparks, and arks of
Narcissists
Neither Wizards nor Rat Bastard Fascists
Better get racist upon my rarefied
Air mattresses
These Special Care Madnesses
Packages from
Facial(!)
Fractal Chai Knees
Dirty Knee Factories
Look at deez
knees growwwwwww

Whoa whoa whoa
Whoa whoa whoa whoa
Whoaaaooooo

Do you remember when, in
The Fall of Two Thousand Twelve
in New Orleans
We coined the phrase
“To Thou, Send Thirteen?”
It was a calling, a conjuring,
An evocation of a natural
No Nation
Apostles of twelve or was it thirteen?
An Earnest Hemmingway reality
Where “you” don’t exist, only “thou.”

Only thou’s
Oily
Taoist dowries make a man drowsy, see?
And only on two days’ rest
Tuesdays at the behest of the
Beheaded Mayan Beast,
who
We met at
That One Freak Folk Festival
in Venice Beach…
What was it called, again?
Oh yeah…
!Deez Feasts!
These feasts!
These fee-ee-eats.
Deez feasts!
I can only taste them in my dree- ee-ee-eames

Coming this Winter Solstice…
Eve smothers
Adam for his skin, in
An artful and/or arty
Attempt to
Attain
An Alternate Garden of Eden.

Where we’ll all be eatin’
Dollar Tacos at Molly’s on
French men.
Never minding sidling up to our idolatry, giving
Moon Bigotry a
Big-O-try

And you were leaning breezily
Back against the cigarette machine, looking like somebody’s smart kid sister
Dress checkered, sans
Skechers!
All growed up,
Reading
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being” and telling me about it Something medical and critical, ethical and romantic
I couldn’t really pay much attention, kept zoning out, distracted by your
Self assured,
Azure Nebulae

Months later we’d lay there in your soft loft with my
Spider My Man
We spied her myth, man
“‘Tis art, Mon petit Pop Tart.”
We spied ‘er myth, man.
We spied her myth, man.
“‘Tis art, my little Pop Tart
Pop spider myth trouble, man
Spied her myth bubble, yeah

(The Four Gone Conclusions
Tear Tickets at the Gates
Of Double Shotgun Heaven
No sidewalks only Waits,
broken glass, dead grass, loose gravel, and a million chicken bones
Lawless lawns belonging to
Long-gone sluts,
While Wandering Oogles jones
Until you’ll find them lying
On or under the awning
On the stoop beside generation-spanning/spawning
African-Aftermathamericans
Yawning at the
Genteel Old Boy Gentile Genitalia Parade and Gala)

Gosh, Valhalla!
The Second Line will Holla!
And then, of course,
Sign In
having been
Sighted for
Sighing for the
Second Time, on the
Second Line…
That, and the (h)Our
Times and the
Minutes That
Minute Bol arrives
armed with bowls of
Minute Rice
In this, my
Ninth Nude Libertarian/
“Get A Life”
Disney kNight tI’me
Light Life
It’s the

November 14, 2024 at 9:57 PM

Musical Prompt:

“Past Musical Prompt Here”

“Slow, ascendant Early 90s R&B/British Pop/Rock gradually building into anthemic crescendo“

Background:

@ The Villere House