The Zenith
By John F Buckley and Martin Ott
Joe and Lydia wanted another loved one to hold,
companion to their quarreling son and daughter,
The tiny voice brayed in the electronic puppy mill,
the family mesmerized by the thump and squawk.
The Zenith was a kaleidoscope of their desires,
and their apartment swirled with unfamiliar voices.
The tiny voice brayed in the electronic puppy mill
until unplugging the cord silenced the console
as deftly as a choke chain or paddling switch.
Home again came Joe with his precious package,
setting it on the Ikea media center, now fulfilled.
Their neighbors paid homage to their new Rex.
The shortening days turned imperceptibly to snow,
the kind that ghosted them in the witching hours,
the family mesmerized by the thump and squawk,
until there was nothing left but the image of them
clutching a patchwork blanket and pale arms,
flickering light falling on them from the zenith.
The children played sick to stay home and watch
whether what it would do next would be even better.
It received far more exercise than it needed,
and their apartment swirled with unfamiliar voices
that spoke of traditional values and Sham-Wows.
Hypnotic barking soon presumed their attention.
No one could agree on what made them happy,
so many tales, so few hours, only one window
to worlds that turned them feverish and wanting.
Companion to their quarreling son and daughter,
Joe and Lydia wrested for control of the set,
believing the Zenith only resembled him or her.
Neighbors who noticed began to whisper that
Joe and Lydia wanted another loved one to hold
them captive, enraptured, leaving their children
to parent themselves, fed by sympathy casseroles
from church groups and forbidden to enter the den
where the television stared from under stale afghans.
The Zenith was a kaleidoscope of their desires
whether what it would do next would be even better.
Their neighbors paid homage to their new Rex
from church groups and forbidden to enter the den.
No one could agree what made them happy.
There was nothing left by the image of them.
———————————————————————–
Drift Away to The Archipelago of Dreams
Coming this fall on YBN, welcome to The Archipelago of Dreams,
an island paradise accessible only by sleepgliders drifting off course
to where you’d truly rather be. Here you’ll find Mr. McApnea and his
giant sidekick slug Pierce, who’ll mewl, “The Portal, The Portal,”
when you slide into this cross-dimensional limbo where guests
like the Cookie Mamacita and the diminutive heartstruck songwriter
brandish the limbo stick for each perilous snoozeland adventure.
Slip beneath the pole, beneath the threshold, slip footfirst into one
of a million firepits, crucibles where your deepest regrets turn to ash,
to topsoil, from which springs a smarter, more beautiful version
of you, a deadlier doppelganger who will chase you across the moss
fields and mushroom hilltops, into the fiberglass cloud topiary garden,
where pink cumulus elk bushes rear near your duo of faces, itch slivers
wafting down into your hair, your buoyant soufflé bouffant baked in
the Ministry of Insouciant Cheer, the hair helmet and lederhosen
no disguise in this halcyon harbor. You ask yourself who you are,
carbon copy, mass hysteria in human form, a lover’s Bruce Banner,
a soldier’s Don Juan, a spoiled barracuda wrapped in an army blanket,
returning after these special messages ring like a tinfoil molar alarm.
Each commercial snaps you back into the family room, rubbing
your eyes and staring at the macramé owl on the wall, at Frito bits
ground into the shag carpet, and back to your own sofa archipelago.
You are the land bridge to the panoply of secrets beneath cushions,
to the test pattern that buzzes with the sun hiding behind curtains.
———————————————————————–
Real Housewives of Wayne County
The drama started at Eva’s reception held at Uncle
Jerry’s mattress store. The police report missed
the bullet hole in the duvet but recorded Megan’s
plan to stow all the empties in her Fiesta for the dime
deposits and the groom’s drunken lap dance that led
to the half-assed Jägermeister Molotov cocktail
in the shower stall at the Packard Motel. And Jackie
really has to ask why Shauna won’t lend Heather
her black mini skirt for her date with that hunk Karl,
who cruises Hamtramck in his murdered-out Ford?
If Eva and Jackie weren’t cousins, tongues like rock
salt could eat away only half a friendship’s fender,
or idle the combustion of well drinks at Paycheck’s
Lounge. No one knows who lip-sticked the bullseye
on the Abdullahs’ garage door, who left the half-
eaten bag of Better Made barbecue chips at the scene,
who started the ponytail pulls at Dibbz ‘N’ Dabbz
nail salon. Relationships were chipped like the black
ice on Woodward, Heather and Megan tagteaming
Shauna, the paczki of sisterhood growing stale,
the handheld cameras capturing these childhood
friends made monstrous in snow and fading light.
Category: Poetry