PANEGYRIC OF A FLUORESCENT SAGUARO WHICH ROUSES“IGNATZ MOUSE” FROM TURPITUDINOUS SLUMBER by Noah Wareness
PANEGYRIC OF A FLUORESCENT SAGUARO WHICH ROUSES
“IGNATZ MOUSE” FROM TURPITUDINOUS SLUMBER
The ziggurat Zabbuto boasts a brick of someteen thousand years --
but kall that brick no special kase -- for someday's sun might melt it to a “beer jug.”
And on the sun today a howdah, friend. And overneath three brickbats fly.
And windy klockfaced mesas running redward back as rust.
‘Pon yon vermillion dais suns and stirs a “Kat” whose hardy noggin waits.
“She” knows what love is -- strokes “her” kornered basking-bed of brick.
So old, the ruddy ventricles of every kiln-fresh brick!
So ancient, all us players -- all us pieces -- dizzy in the blowing years --
but kreases never come a-krazing “kat” cheeks, cause “he” kannot learn to wait.
To stir the sun “she” plinks a raga on a banjo-bodied “gourd,”
and wizened tumbleweeds below “him” spin in puffing tufts of rust --
You see them, “Mouse” -- their jouncing tangoes — someday they will fly.
As sure as every brick you heft has panged and pined for flight --
and sure as “mice” may trust all kactoid exegeses on the quiddities of bricks --
on high “she” dreams of hurled kisses, loving not to sit and rust --
we pieces all -- o flourpot and jadeplant, sodaflat, o thornsharp notes, o years --
kraving all and one to shimmy -- o to shimmer, o forever -- soul to be -- one “soul”
thereby -- one soul. O eld’rous “Mouse”, you're young as “he” – don't wait.
For sometimes kats -- like suns we meet -- will rise for lack of wait.
Observe “her” tilt a soda-straw toward that kobalt-blue and drowsy bottle-fly --
“he” puffs the cracker-yellow mesa wind to tickle 'cross its “wings” --
not bored, our “Kat” pursues the now-viridian kalliphore down terraced brick.
“She'd” never think to stay -- but wandering, “she’d” yearn verbillion years.
The secret bakes beneath the open-shuttered sun -- there’s nothing rusts but rust.
O snatch your geriatric love-projectile, “Mouse” -- its silty billow isn't rust --
as teetering Zabbuto mutifies into a stand of pines without its keystone's weight --
now crouch behind my jangle-needled trunk, all windswept, tall with years,
and fondle frantic fingerfuls of firmly fired fill -- for feline frolics forth –- full fly!
“Kat's” hazy kranial bone karessed by ever-most heartfelt of zipping bricks!
O dented temples, “Mouse”, o sodapop and holy Swiss -- o names of “love”.
Alas! My newly-shooted kwaternary trunk conceals “Pupp” -– that kop whose “love”
for justice, rectitude and “Kat” kompels him pound you off to rust --
o fuming “Mouse,” you’ll whip your tail, carving days upon your oubliette of brick.
But sure as moons turn blue -- or gorgonzolas gibbous – freedom's no long wait.
A single kop’s got heartmeat newsprint-soft -- he'll blot a sentimental hanky as you fly.
Someday I'll sprout a hand – I’ll toss konfetti in the blowing years.
Noah Wareness makes fiction and poetry by hand with scratchy black pens. He does a lot of live storytelling at DIY shows, but Meatheads is his first novel. It first circulated in the folk punk and speculative fiction communities as a handmade zine with wheatpasted cardboard covers and speaker wire for binding. He went to school for writing on the west coast, and now he lives in Toronto with some friends.
The Ekphrastic Review
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