melopoeia
clark coolidge
once said to me
“run, poet, run.
run like a
drummer. run,
dumdum, run
until you’re
done.” clark
coolidge spools
a long strand of
his hair into cool
curlicues. guess
who barks in the
dark. yep, that’s
the dog what
belongs to clark.
it’s friday. i’m
whiny with tiny,
shiny shot
glasses, each
filled with some
thing slimy and
limey. my tiny
memory says
there’s around
nine, in each
of which we
practically
drowned down
ing (this potent
plot part, while
pouty, is impotent,
dishonest, unimp
ortant and emb
arrassing). clark,
who’d come out
to partake, but
late, had parked
in the dark while
we downed all
our limeys, which
blimey (and beg
pardon, apologies),
did those limeys
fry me, hanging
us each out to
dry, but with
a night so
damp and
with such low
visibility, we
were as a
poor dog’s
attempt to
outwit the
fog with tail-
chasing and
voluminously
abnormal
decibels of
“bark, bark!
barkety bark!”
well, the dog
that was, how
ever, clark’s,
stayed with
clark once
he’d parked
in the dark,
and in no
time flat
the two
were out
like a lamp
never having
made it into
the grand bar
(which, by the
way, was the
bar har-har).
yes, those
two, both
man and pup
were out like
lamps as the
damp fog
amped up
til dawn.
by then, i
was stricken
and hung from
all of those
slimey limies
and, truth be
untold, from
having slept
a bit in my
pal chuck’s
dumptruck.
slowly opening
my eyes i knew
what i needed.
the hair of clark’s
barking dog that,
i’ll be damned,
now that i recall
unimaginatively,
had bitten me
in the butt but
hard like a clamp
and with some
duration just as
the damp night
fog amped up.
dang, what a
mess, woe is
me. enough,
enough, but
don’t be angry,
whoever you are
scattered if at all
somewhere out
there, for i must
most apologetically
confess that i am
a phony. for every
line of this silly
stack of words
is total baloney.
clark coolidge,
our elder statesmen
of aural poetic pleasure,
has never spoken to me,
not one word. i made this
embarrassing pile of phony
baloney just so that i could
remember a word, the meaning
of which i just learned tonight.
look up, it’s the title, melopoeia,
which is something i’ve known
and enjoyed ever since my
ears can remember, but i
never had a word for it until
tonight. i’m sorry if you wasted
your time on my account, but,
oh, won’t you please and never
theless drop by again tomorrow?
if or if not, my one and only plea,
is please don’t take it out on me.
clark coolidge
once said to me
“run, poet, run.
run like a
drummer. run,
dumdum, run
until you’re
done.” clark
coolidge spools
a long strand of
his hair into cool
curlicues. guess
who barks in the
dark. yep, that’s
the dog what
belongs to clark.
it’s friday. i’m
whiny with tiny,
shiny shot
glasses, each
filled with some
thing slimy and
limey. my tiny
memory says
there’s around
nine, in each
of which we
practically
drowned down
ing (this potent
plot part, while
pouty, is impotent,
dishonest, unimp
ortant and emb
arrassing). clark,
who’d come out
to partake, but
late, had parked
in the dark while
we downed all
our limeys, which
blimey (and beg
pardon, apologies),
did those limeys
fry me, hanging
us each out to
dry, but with
a night so
damp and
with such low
visibility, we
were as a
poor dog’s
attempt to
outwit the
fog with tail-
chasing and
voluminously
abnormal
decibels of
“bark, bark!
barkety bark!”
well, the dog
that was, how
ever, clark’s,
stayed with
clark once
he’d parked
in the dark,
and in no
time flat
the two
were out
like a lamp
never having
made it into
the grand bar
(which, by the
way, was the
bar har-har).
yes, those
two, both
man and pup
were out like
lamps as the
damp fog
amped up
til dawn.
by then, i
was stricken
and hung from
all of those
slimey limies
and, truth be
untold, from
having slept
a bit in my
pal chuck’s
dumptruck.
slowly opening
my eyes i knew
what i needed.
the hair of clark’s
barking dog that,
i’ll be damned,
now that i recall
unimaginatively,
had bitten me
in the butt but
hard like a clamp
and with some
duration just as
the damp night
fog amped up.
dang, what a
mess, woe is
me. enough,
enough, but
don’t be angry,
whoever you are
scattered if at all
somewhere out
there, for i must
most apologetically
confess that i am
a phony. for every
line of this silly
stack of words
is total baloney.
clark coolidge,
our elder statesmen
of aural poetic pleasure,
has never spoken to me,
not one word. i made this
embarrassing pile of phony
baloney just so that i could
remember a word, the meaning
of which i just learned tonight.
look up, it’s the title, melopoeia,
which is something i’ve known
and enjoyed ever since my
ears can remember, but i
never had a word for it until
tonight. i’m sorry if you wasted
your time on my account, but,
oh, won’t you please and never
theless drop by again tomorrow?
if or if not, my one and only plea,
is please don’t take it out on me.
