News From North Country
The bright-eyed buxom broadcaster in thick makeup
her mother never quite taught her to brush on correctly
suddenly engulfs and swallows up her fellow newscaster
boring the hell out of us with his very choice and casual
small talk, while we see his slim heath club figure naturally
moving down her trachea, letting out a slight burp, and with
a little giggle peeps–“O excuse me” and very matter-of-factly
says– “And now for our North Country weather” where another very
slim prudent, neat and tidy man in his conservative glasses, pretending
to be all nice and kind, whimsical and funny, responds–“Thanks Jenny”
and watches his back now a little more guarded and discreetly, while
pointing to different regions with captions flashing beneath him about
school closings due to an impending ice storm, at last moving towards
the last story of the morning where they display like one of those idiot
reenactments of some Revolutionary War battle where they show a
bunch of old timers and bankers and accountants scuttling through
the suburban forest all dressed up in their tight Revolutionary War
uniforms made to look like Minutemen, like during one of those
school field trips you used to take as a kid you loathed and
hated, which would bore the hell out of you (thinking more so
about getting laid and all the classes you were falling behind in)
with resentful maidens getting paid minimum wage to make brooms
and butter, while the camera finally pans at last to that buxom bright-
eyed broadcaster just standing there with her poorly brushed-on make
up and her plastic, psychotic smile, feening, standing right next to
the last remaining, slim, very flamboyant newscaster cozying up to her
due to apparent natural consequences and her might-over-right mental-
ity, acting all happy, getting ready for a new day up in North Country.
The Revolutionary War
I need a sketch artist on an everyday daily basis
who will flesh-out all my moods and very fragile
state of mind and existence and will fill up his
tip jar to the top with loose change and maybe
if i get lucky will take requests; one of those
damaged entertainers whose women all left
in some insane, half-crazed lounge constantly
experiencing drama and crisis night in night
out; some old laughing hag smoking cigars
rocking back and forth on the porch with her
escort gangsta black man under a bugzapper
beneath the stars then return casually back
through deep dark woods of glowing eyes
of nocturnal creatures cautiously creeping
out of revolutionary war graveyards just as
lost and lonesome as myself to that window
on the lake where my much older sugar baby
unconditionally waits and welcomes me naked
while always ready who once claimed she didn’t
want the relationship to get too hot and heavy and
when you finally have had it and have to hit the road
starts whelping out loud how she knew her dogs were
gonna make you go while you naturally immigrate back
to the city and her to that commune of pretty whimsical
windswept women wailing in creaky caravans on the sea.
