J.P. Hart's Open Salon Blog

ODE: No Piano Hidden Today

Sat, 26 May 2012 14:05:07 -0400

It rained a good while until I thought of you

ade .000,009 yards, cloth, thumb index cloth thin enough to read through, even a lack of 8 keys, allow 13 keys, tactile 11 possibly 10 mine or significance toward eighty-eight, his own self a digital quest for the square mirror. The populace formula slash equation a continuous red line, well fit off the rack chukka boots, an apricot nectar, blessed is the syntax, obsolete as it paints a snare, a mistaken identity, the lupine hectoring, a wonderful song, dissociation, the next molecular thingamajig, a lure, an abandoned brush white painted Baptist school bus arrested in low gear, hidden in spike nailed wax-leafed holly sharked neocolonialism, nude hosiery, on a damp day, 00,00 years of concise animosity, a rebellious Holy Ghost, asleep on the luggage rack, the bum pity dream sans mistake, grey as the storm, panic afore the void, the sirens not stopping and, you couldn't record this, yelping mammals below a penultimate gate, 'primal' would not define the distance, the intense urgency ultra-pitched a sound for the taking those sirens multiplied, wail non obsolete as a matter of jurisprudence, the girl stolen, mine hand beneath the teat. The perpetual motion so artificial the curtain, its rod arrow spiked right left left right, patrolling beneath brass monkey balls, the parking brake set on the trolley, the tray near the lap and the crescent coffee mug sepia, God bless extrusion molding, the light-weight coffins easy on the back of those with indigenous sharp-shoveled sod splitting hickory handled blades.

In distant dreams of midnights crossed I tossed my coins and all was lost. Such secrets I shall keep, to catch you when. As plump and suspicious as a canned oyster, he'd capture the predilection, slow playing of h alleluia, curious that the divine genius would mention an electrified floor, too late now, even Andy Cap telekinetic at the base of the black walnut spiral staircase, no thought crime here, it is Saturday all the way up his head as pin sharp as those paper cone gasoline station funnels, designed so you could not let the paper vessel leave your hand, cataclysm Catechism, the scarf-headed broad hipped women tending free range turkeys, their satchels filled with ultra-sound salve, is that how it goes, beneath the stage a saintly stoner hammers nails, now and again spark like spit serpentine-like, the labyrinthine stagnant glossolalia, the pangs of the contortionists, their plateau-like twill brims blessed as comma splice as holy as the next day, the light of the perfectionist eye, rock angels smoothed, invisible cords calling them home, I suspect it was Fellini's wires, or was it the hypo-mania of the puppeteer, fondly signaling with a found shard of glass as he stood on the sudden mountain; a child-drawn mountain range, gee wishes that hurts, tan duck eggs delivered in a wire IN basket, undetermined except by a sharp burr from the OUT basket, his verdant visor beneath forty-four foot florescent lamps, one dark, the other too opalescent to worry about, there was enough medicine horded to mill powder into several clear drops of tepid homogenized melted lard, stored in soda tins, they'd fished since the sun rose constant as time after the night's drive due east toward the damn on the map, it was a CCC damn creatively marked with left over yellow house paint, above it spring water placidly pooled with reflected broken trees as balanced as the vast tumultuous horizontal waterfall awash vanishing away over boulders wrought by angels, that sad.

Kafka Woke Me

Sat, 19 May 2012 09:05:13 -0400

raining cats mit dogs

Man pours coffee adds nothing to the stone mug.

Soon his eyes twinkle.

And he tilts his cigarette cognizant that he will then say he reads this script over an ash that waits to fall.

His tongue thick to the trace taste of yesterday's Irish jigger.

Drambuie.

He goes on this way.

Around the corner men in holiday shirts and Boston Brave caps ride plastic buffaloes, the merrymaking turnstiles of their motorcycles at red line:

Leapt, leaned forward, flight, at one with the machine.

Three stories up, she touches her knees after pulling on taupe pantyhose over legs still moist graced by wet.

Hubert Miller for no reason appeared in Wednesday's obituaries, and it wasn't really him, you know.

So youthful in the day.

A cub reporter wanted to say 'reckless abandon' as a hefty deer, a female deer, bounded like a mother fucker alongside a hedge and as though from his left eye an indigo bunting sought shelter simultaneously right there beneath a leaf.

[Honda, Honda it's alright]

He'd forgotten that picket fence but the same CENTIPEDE created its own swirl of death row confusion as it appeared then disappeared anticipating that if the man's urine stream stopped the waterfall would quench the acidicly tortured burn all this going on while the odorous drain stench likewise riled the manchild even has he held his breath with taut puffed cheeks knowing that the paradigm right here and now required or insisted like implied italics that he zip up and back off and allow what was left of the fresh water to cascade and not have pathetic thoughts of rescuing a CENTIPEDE from the urinal and maybe do some real typing right on the internet.

Fucking A he thought beneath nails trimmed just right.

Even though a ways away always permeated that is dervishlee spun permeated recent albeit futuristic luminescent [God Bless you Chucky Cheese] reminiscent flashback get go.

[Ive seen that sign but refuse to Wikipedia

Day of the Locust]

After all, he owed it to himself and, taping duct tape over his Velcro (thank you, Winnie the Pooh) gloves, he moved the pin lower and lower until he'd a full two hundred and twenty-five pounds (the Allen wrench-like magnesium pin) so precise giving him pleasure beneath the black cast iron plates.

Bruce Springsteen loudly sang about a freight train going through the middle of his head.

[Holy Bologna that's heavier than I imagined,]

The late middle-aged writer thought to himself.

Beneath him the red alert colored weight bench felt good between his shoulder blades; not scared of dying, he began to work.

A woman with a fancy electronic arm wearing an eye patch just then overtook the room as she entered.

A three legged one eyed terrier tethered beneath a leash braided with silvery then golden glistened links walked wonderfully silently in front of the woman.

The nervous dog pranced into the spa afore the home coming queen.

Know there'd been oblique awfulness.

Albeit dramatic rescue; period.

I said to myself, I hurt too.

I'd gotten to seven reps, American.

Deeply from the Sixty-Six

Wed, 16 May 2012 08:05:53 -0400

scrapnel hot rain

I'd a '57 Chevy convertible in 1966. Paid $125. The Vietnam War was always on the TV news, and on Time magazine. We sanded off the robin's egg blue, fixed the rusty rocker panels and then sprayed it a metal flake midnight. Older neighborhood guys were by this time flown home dead from the war. We scrubbed that canvas top as pure as the driven snow. Mothers wailed at military funerals. We'd stage drag races at all hours. One of the girls would drop a pink carnation and we'd roar and wheelie-screech off into the night. Yeah a lot of those kids were reading Atlas Shrugged, changing brake shoes and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon close to the fire. Moon River was never far. Tethered behind frayed, oily nylon cords we'd grip tight and experiment on water skis. Zig-zagging we'd try to jump the wake behind those heavy glass boats. One of the Jacks always wore a red cap. His older brother Tommy wrote gruff letters from China Beach until he didn't.

Poem Not About Poetry

Sat, 12 May 2012 09:05:45 -0400

rain delay

here'd be a reply, a method of rich defiance, other titles, as bald tires perforated on the Mississippi River grabbed with silver gaff, spun to silence, preserved filmic images, an investigator sponsored by the Hague, with moral certainty,

a St. Augustine, worn green with a scapular bookmark, in newco jeans, ten year olds fishing with invisible lines, all this from one who once knew, how the electoral college worked, what were pads on a leopard's paw, the shock and awe, let the bagpipes blow, like the wind, let the mountains grow, etymologies for the unseen dance.

Dead Bird

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 13:04:06 -0400

As it rains.

The depth of a dead bird's hollowed eye and bright feathers sodden and drowned in prismatic anti-freeze?

A zoomy arrested pathos: its beak gaped.

Over on its back, his belly feathered yellow, white, his crown a special wood pecker red, and black-checker black. What was I to do, foolish poet, failed short story writer, pissant, running on with one untied shoe, other than gently lift the dead *Melanerpes erythrocephalus* with a dishwasher's glove.

I must catalog to memory the mystic hue of its eye. I could say 'exaggerated pupil centered upon an almost illicit green-the green of the earliest leaf of-of a lamb's ear in 1952 when a child's hand pinched midday topsoil on the west side of a house, and then caressed minute white hair on an emergent bright green leaf.' That color green. The Red-headed Woodpecker's eye was something of an opalescent green beyond the limited descriptive prowess of this typist.

'show me a barrier, it makes me warier'

I surmise (the surprisingly near-weightlessness of it) broke its neck as it swooped beak first, proud, gentle, joyous, at full speed, (cantilevered) into the clean spring glass.

The reflected sky, not a care in the world, he thought.

***

off the

elevator

down the

glistened

floors

the electric

green machine

flat-lines

there is

the spank

of gangrene

an eye

forced closed

beneath the

rubbery thumb

and pointer

finger

as a poet cries

just,

new eyes

white light, sparkled

moist, starched

blue flannel,

bright blood

and oh!

coochie coo

my goodness!

the split rumba

of life,

the surgeon's

knife