Coming from the wrong side Of the tracks, we knew straightaway What felt right for us was balancing For as long as we could on rails We thought would lead us away— What sidetracked us was that bright Shiny penny that blindsided us From the right and led us astray.
The worst is yet to come scenario Runs through the entire thread Of his talk and boy how we wish He’d hurry up and unravel before The whole shebang blows up Under the circumstances, leaving Us gratefully dead in the head.
Since you asked about Rita In your last letter, last I heard Your foraging hunchback dwarf With the unflagging energy And beautiful bouquets Of overwhelmingly sweet Smelling narcissi who kept Coming back to your door On her little red bike in 1984 After you’d already bought four Of them and placed one In each of your house’s Three small rooms plus Bringing one to my mother As a name day gift is now Where her siblings put her— In an old folks’ home In Kalamata—that’s all I know for sure for now, But thinking back on how Fiercely she fought and persevered Against the ugliness of people Surrounding her, I also like To think her new surroundings Are chock full of plenty pretty Flowers like the ones You bought from her, too.
All the best From your brother in the boondocks Of the southern Peloponnese
They say you should Never believe your eyes, But if your ears were more
Plausible as cauliflowers, I bet you would Eat your stinking hearts out.
Moderator’s comments: Might perhaps the reason behind Huuk’s long hiatus be because
he’s been feeling boxed in by conventional standards of behavior, especially
those dealing with politically correct/incorrect olfactory reactions to unsavory issues
that have always been so close to his heart? Now that that rather hard to swallow problem looks somewhat resolved by this poem, I hope he's at peace with himself and has finally decided
to let John Q. Public go to hell in a handcart driven by a host of crazed grotesques.
Cool it, mon frère— No one’s wondering What you’re up to These days and if anyone is So inclined, he or she Most certainly won’t be Concerned with what Your newest but long overdue Offering’s going to be about— Au contraire, more than likely They’ll be dying to hear how long Your latest deadly silence will last This time around.
Mine’s sixty-eight—I’ve been “Cooling my heels” over an hour And the priority slip I’m now using As a bookmark says my waiting Time should’ve been around nine Minutes; in the meantime, I’ve been Making do in the overworked air- Conditioned inner sanctum Of the nightmare
Institution which looks after My rapidly dwindling bantam Nest egg with all the care Of a crazed mother hen,
And reading a slender volume Of poems called Sleepwalker’s Songs, All the while thinking of what I could do If my nest egg were fatter, watching Customer after customer go up To the teller and walk out again
Onto a dazzling, searing asphalt so hot it could fry Enough dinosaur eggs to feed an onslaught Of famished, day-dreaming somnambulists Armed to the teeth with nothing But a slew of cool blank checks— I wonder what 69’s thinking of.