The Tall Green Circle to Heaven
stands on its hind legs for height;
no matter, ill-fated. Never thirsty
for the infinite blue that is always
slurping away at its tendrils, which
the big green circle warms
with its cusps, never knowing
the red of the fire it creates,
nor too high on itself to really even
pay attention to the loudest shades
of lipstick floating beneath and
among and around the tall circle's
lowest green limbs, which — big gasp,
effortless words — are red as the backsides
of some of the shinier animals that
roll gleefully down the
short hill all day long. The lips-
ticks floating in and among the
darkening green of the dusk, the
shushing in and the shushing out
like sounds the skins of wings make.
Funny how they, the shushing sounds
makers, never fly or even float above
the infinitely blue drug this sometimes
the mid-afternoon sky, or the sky of the
early morning or sometimes the sky at the
stroke of midnight, never float above the
still blue, beneath or around the tall green
circle standing on its hind feet (for height),
never float out of the still blue water, these
(red?) shushing wings, the water that is and
was the bay, is and was filled with the shiniest
animals which never fly up and over or float
across. The wonder. The tall tree in the middle
of the tall green circle that envelops the tall tree
and all of the green and the short hill from which
the tree rises and down which the shiny animals
roll gleefully; the green tree, up which now the
bay seems to climb, is climbing, so that the blue
water (infinitely blue) is not simply beneath or
around or among the loveliest limbs of the tree,
but rises further still up to the net sack at the
beautiful green tree's longer arms, all hidden
from most of the universe (perhaps?) by the
tall circle (green) that stands on its hind feet
frantically looking for heaven. The
circle, the entire body of the tree
standing on its hind legs (which can
feel the coolness of the water as it
rises, rises), gasping. Gasping
THESE ARE RED!! the feet of the
tree to which the snout of the tree
now points deliberately, frenetically,
until finally, and ever so slowly,
the tree begins to be mellifluously
sucked up above — into the next circle;
this, the endless cycle of the heavenless tree.
Kevin Tighe
walks into
a bar and
belts out a
very loud and
gargled: E-
MERGENCY!
& just as
everyone
jumps out
of their
seats and
are on their
various ways
to the aisles
(the most pop-
ular route being
bottoms of legs
barely skimming
the tops of vac-
ated seats),
he, Kevin Tighe,
turns his head
toward the pro-
jector and stares
up into it (at me)
and says:
You can thank
me for that one.
Jewel
Lee vs. Jujube
Jack & Jill
vs.
The Hill
were
at the
Jewel
Bee
Jubilee.
Which
is
just
a jest,
a
silly way
to
say any-
thing
be-
sides
today;
anything
ex-
cept last
night
+ the
night be-
fore last
+ the deep
and bitter
end of the
day before
yesterday.
A joule
is a
unit
of el-
ectoral,
magest-
erial
and
thermal
under-
wear,
some-
thing
shiny
and
bright,
worn
skinny,
it
is
but one
attempt
to
broach
an
identity,
like
that of
you
or that
of
me. Un-
like the
last
48
hours
of
hard-on
gruesome;
a
turmoil
I’ve
taken
as
metric-
al,
or at
least
of a
broken
down
metric,
a unit
of
music or
property re-
presentative
in
this trom-
bonified
case,
a
freakin' lout
of a
day (which
I
call a flaut)
and
fairly ab-
normal
(not!),
(it
is not) even
a
quarter of an
inch
magical, the
lip of
which is not
one
iota madrigal
(&
on that note, here
is a
side-fantasy: When
shouldn’t
there be
a day
when the
Mrs. Latter
of which
stands
at the ready,
right
here on Barbary
Lane?
Oh, how I do
so
very much wish
that she
were around
today,
like always,
just to
say hello
through
all of this
haywire! This
un-
plain
Olympia, never
intended
to be climbed
like
a San Francisco hill
but
lovingly embraced
into,
engulfed, in a
floaty
way like
How
Sweet Is
My
Valley (a
con-
fusion
of a story
about
the state
of
Tennessee and the
flick
by John Ford),
and,
yes, even like
the
rich and mellifluent
voice
of Tennessee
Ernie
Ford
but
rather
NOT like
(speaking
of dells)
the
Dukakis that
was
neither Duke
nor
President but
an
also ran (aka,
a
Greek with no
Jimmy). All
in all
(you
do the math).
It’s
a for-real
day approaching —
but
never equaling
— the
entire
previous year
of them.
Befitting to a T,
right, this
year preceded by
entire
previous years, which
were,
each, in their own little
ways:
I, M & E. Yep.
T + I
+ M + E =
everything
(again,
you
do the math).
And
did you know,
well,
of course you
did,
that individually,
we’re
each + all
~80% H20.
And as united
as we
may stand, we are
never
(please do under-
stand),
no, not ever
undivided.
No matter
our
individual stance.
In
fact, me being me
(that’s
me=me; and this
is,
please, just between
you
and me) is something
like
the factoid that broke
the
camel’s back (and
was
found the very next day
in a
haystack) — a fact
which
could be a pair (or
so)
of facts, could be just
a
little too much (like M+E at
times,
IMHO). But, really,
everything
being me,
which
= LIFE, or one
that
has for a time
existed,
is some-
thing
that I have
rarely known
and yet
seem
to persist right
through
it. But more
to my
point, I think:
charity
persists, cherries
are picked
(and are full of
the pits)
and chastity;
well,
it’s a bust.
Isn’t
this all no-
thing
but my inevitable
attempt
at jubilance,
after
all? Even here,
stuck
at the very bottom
of
it, I heave out a Hooray!;
sally (to rush out or leap forth
suddenly) out of a bunch of
muck;
stick up my thumb (and
not
my bum!) and sally
(to issue suddenly from
a defensive or besieged
position to attack an enemy):
a
hefty Yippee for Meeee!;
and
set out on a trip or
excursion
(which also =
our
good friend sally)
in the
general direction
of
tomorrow! Yip Pee!
