Anonymous Bosch

Burnt Sienna

Burnt Sienna is still sienna,
Singed in one of three degrees.
Is first the worst?
Or third to fear
When sear is no longer sienna.


Sesquicentennial

Sesquicentennial -
One hundred years minus, plus a few.
Or else shaped into geometrical form.
Modified, museumed, mausoleumed;
More interesting than biennial
As puzzling as quadrihedron
Alas, not as bad as quasiheathen.
To say nothing of Tipi Hedron.


Facings

Your impassive face speaks
Through my inference.
I read into and about it
In vexing speculation.
Oh, wear your heart upon your sleeve;
And show me implications, Face!


Horse Sense

Slip shod
One horse shay
Horse poorly shod
Surely slips
The wagon breaks apart
And we wonder why we tumble out.


Sixteen and Counting

Lincolnesque -
In form, in action, perhaps
Not always, exactly in fashion.
A quality devoutly
To be wished.
Obamaesque, Arabesque
Think Gettysburg, Inaugural Two -
Slaves whose chains are broken.
One man can make the center hold?
Bold!
William Butler sound retreat!
No, wait. The century sorely sags.

In Extremis

Olive slips upon my tongue;
Adheres in repetition:
Olive, olive, O-Live.
Omega oils and dry martinis.
To live is to embrace extremes.
Oh, live within the middle, Fool!
Middlemarch, Bourgeoisie
Petit and otherwise.
Bring many martinis
On this happiest of hours.
And hold every goddam olive.

Anonymous Bosch

Germanic Rumination


Of Prussia I am confused
I seek old maps to find its where
A Google, and there it is.
Prussian armies, Old Kingdoms,
Dotted lines.
A northern slice of Germany?
Hessians, Prussians - One in same
Who helped, who hurt our Revolution?
King of Prussia, Pennsylvania
What's with that?


Is It the Mother Board?

Suspend your animation,
An inner voice decrees.
Means movement and routine
Abide on sparse electricity.
Lowered amperage,
Weakened wattage
Walk, run, sleep, cry -
All settings default to
Depression
A brain gone slightly,
Awfully awry.


Puppet Tear

I've fallen --
Don't you pick me up!
I've bootstraps
Here somewhere.
Never used, never worn
Unlaced --
Hence, I've fallen.

Don't lift me, please!
There are rosebuds here
Upon the fallen ground
To gather, while I may
Only my goddam bootstraps
Are in the way.

What's this?
You tack my boostraps
To my arms and legs
All straps lead to a board
Upon your palm.
Remember though,
I'm yours forever
Once a marionette.

Back in Panama

I am most happy to report that I am solidly back in Panama. Don't know whatever possessed me to go to Mumbai. We do drink heavily here in the Canal Zone, as you probably guessed if you've read the recent addition to Jeanne's blog. I've stopped devolving, by the way. The Panama sun has scorched the remains of any absinthe that was left in my body. It's good to be clean, straight, and back on the wagon.