37. The ancestral shell has been lost
(x-post LJ) Crossies, combination of poem-a-day #240 about December 30, 2010 (Bacon Day)
And @popplers request for a poem on Squid/rain
Frying pan and spatula melted
Into early retirement— reservé aux mutiliés de la guerre
Tail-gating scorched to new heights
Roaring pork in the back of a Cherokee? Was it?
Vagabond squid differentiated from ancestral
Squatters, denim-stripped muscular molluscs
Whose travel plans extend indefinitely, dorso-ventrally
What was once the red outstretched thumb
Is modified into a set of tentacles, tension rods
Condensed into suction cups
Rusted to flasks, the kiss of whiskey
And gristle, it’s Bacon Day’s Bar/Bat Mitzvah
Treyf with no rain of Beggin’ Strips
Octopi-wise Dr. Travis has eight hands
For each second opinion, Dionysian diagnosis
Is that those tiny nervous systems
Are opaque after being awake for 24 hours
In kippot or dark water— completely obscured
A post-performance nap in a lap
Underneath a round event table
Even teeny-er faces under familiar hats
Use my Amelia EarHart’s pork belly bomber
For a pillow, we may have to wear two strands
To make it rain, to melt this larder of snow
(by Rachel Leah Blumenthal)
http://locksmithy.livejournal.com/tag/poem-a-day
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD (a mo. !!! behind on archives, ‘pologies poetesss.tumblr readers)
