Lynne Potts

Dairy Maid and Cyclops

Just as the air had all it could take and knew it, I know when a sky or anyone has had enough and will pour forth verbiage; you do it too and I’m there with my pail to bail you out from under beams  in your eye scan to uncover what dalliers do/did while Cyclops slumbered in their craven hunger, that is: rummage through the litter for a stick that won’t bend in water, burn it and twist it for insight which doesn’t come through; we wish, we wish.

You pail barn milk and off to the house where I keep my one eye on you, a habit acquired, passed on since cave men took to sticks, then paint, which was the end of them as dalliers; took on a wall to break through, clutter of verbs and pronouns too, then who could say what utter nonsense they had for dinner, but I tell you, still hungry.

Now it’s me pale, agog not to be confused with Agape who was beginning and end, saw with one eye cave hollows, rummage sales: rusted hoes, milk bottles, eye glass you can’t use without switching lenses, even then you’ll see verbiage taking over, hunger-talk talk with a switch dipped in water to bend reflections, a shed around the edge, dally lily in vast vase set out to see through, see through and tell, of course.

 

Lead Weight on a Line

Yes, I knew it rang but I was receiving off on a tangent as in: here’s what the substitute said: carry chalk to the bored: think until bells go off in your head and I said I do not talk under duress, phone lethargic to the ear—absence of silence: how we act or not; a posse came across the mountain once and waited; it was too late; chalk it up to a fact of absence; I’m here in the park, litter and board on the ground, every one around talking in a wiry way at a distance unable to hear.

Inhibited my habit I’m not talking while the waiter asks are you still working on your plate,; well, Lovie, I work but I’d hate to think of my food approached by hammers and chisels, especially oysters ready to slip off the lip of shells found in chalk cliffs hanging like a loose tooth about to be pulled out of oblivion; Oh I know a posse when I see it, ready to ring a string, slam the door and the molar goes flying; then sure, you can’t eat or chisel either, all you want is a cotton-wad stint.

Bell-bottomed and tasseled, the receiver hung a left over after the call to action, not just eating  fishy tales the length of the bored, nobody listening until belle weather comes over the  mountain, posse putting on airs black as a gap in the stomach wall, nobody caring, nobody caring a bite of hamburger bun, chalky white enough to stint the flow of conversation, wire more or less than possible as an air wave of getting by-by in a basket of triskets, can’t be kept or dropped.

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