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Thursday, August 21, 2008


by David Plumb

Cash poured from clouds and crucifixes
devoid of beard and harp.
Tiny kings who once sold watches
on their right arm held the trump card.
Oil-slicked ducks, lakes poisoned, grain dipped in yesterday’s grease.
The Party ongoing, strident, planned, driven, awarded
kissed, the carpet rolled out.
If Adlai had been too intellectual
Today’s good old boys were THE BOYS.
Fiddling, waving wands. always at the tee
One hole to the next, a bogey, a birdy
a wink, an aside, cigars passed out.
Air awash in cough and melt.
From Beijing to Brooklyn it stunk
and still the parade never stopped.
If the flag wavered, an exposed breast
posted the obvious solution.
A motel room, a fling in the sheets.
Don’t forget to leave something on the dresser.
The economy, why of course.
“Whatever,” kept the boat afloat.
The affront to heroics and myth splattered
in sophomoric, whimsical and abortive dances.
Amnesia that even the poets welcomed.
Blank effusive verse coddled in fellowships, grants
images without shoes, Eisenhower froth, casual affronts to the lawn
tittering fools in a bottle, it was coming to a head.
Short cuts to virtuosity, the new Bible, Facebook offerings
commissions of blink and run, better still a casket at your local discount center
Swipe that card, climb in now.
From endless pitches to the pill that fixed all
a sandwich a car, something, “Real.”
Legislature awash in unread bills and inflated underwear.
Nearly all hands in the pot, judges limped to the horizon.
Briefcase empty; America needed a Raisin d’ Etre
Lamb chop dreams boggled in mist..
What icon stood in the empty hallway?
America drove to the airport.
Said goodbye, stood in line.
Took off its shoes and bowed
To the most recent invasion of privacy.
Rights in nay direction.
Fear the common denominator.
Three ounce toothpaste, shampoo
Lipstick but not too much.
America tapped phones, flags waved
but no crowds, no visible salutes.
America hummed but it forgot the words
that once defined its heart.

David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”