Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Thinglewart
So true, so true Thinglewart is blue
And who knew, who knew, what to do?
For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest
Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest
No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever
Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never
‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over
‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower
He once lived in the Kingdom of Koove
Where ladies and parasites wiggled and moved
There Queen Wishuwell offered him a job
Collecting mumbleweeds whole or by the gob
But he refused and said he would rather scratch dirt
For Lady Whatmethink wanted it for her skirt
So off to the high Dirtclod mountains he went
Until he gathered enough soil like a knocky-head gent
When the night started to dim and blinky blink
Thinglewart returned looking for Whatmethink
But she had ran off with a cute sewer rat
Who promised eons of unwashed chitchat
So Thinglewart sits silent, nose to the road
Where frogs dance and imitate horned toads
Cursing at cars, fucks, and trucks plus more
Thinglewart has become grim as the pink moors
Then a spy named Fry just happened to walk by
Overheard Thinglewart, sigh, sigh and sigh
Asked Thinglewart to join the secret Snoots
About love and dirt they didn’t give a hoot
So Thinglewart thought this a pretty good deal
Off he followed Fry to a hideout called Spiel
There he took the oath of the sacred Snootology
Then they celebrated, underneath the topology
Fry toasted sad Thinglewart with rare weasel juice
Thinglewart began to cry like a baby grass moose
The Snoots had a scheme all wrapped in evilness
Was named by Fry the Great Unexpectedness
To get rid of Queen Wishuwell was the big plan
And her icky boyfriend named Sir Gurr Fryingpan
They would attack when the moon went Buffoon
Yellow and swirly with wrinkles like a prune
Only by darkness would they inchy, slip, slip
To give Sir Gurr and Wishuwell hurty fat lips
But Thinglewart had a soft place in his noggin
The queen had been nice and a little bit awesome
He snuck through the muck, back to the Koove
Finding Gurr and Wishuwell dancing to a groove
He tried to tell them, but they were in no mood
Sir Gurr accused him of being a crude rude dude
Thinglewart was jailed in the tower called Fuzz
For Sir Gurr was a meany, that’s what he does.
So true, so true Thinglewart is blue
And who knew, who knew, what to do?
For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest
Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest
No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever
Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never
‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over
‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower
Chapter Two
Thinglewart’ s not alone in the tower
He’s inside with Sir Blastingcap Chowder
Chowder had worked to get out of tower
Diligent, built foam wings hour by hour
He built sets of cute fuzzy arms for two
Jumped out the window, floating up, it’s true.
Thinglewart attached the other set to his arms
Chowder floated, he couldn’t come to harm
But as soon as he jumped Thinglewart fell
Very slowly, like a flying giant gazelle
Chowder bumped into a sweeping loon
She swatted him with her feather broom
Foam slipped off Chowder’s skinny arms
He started to tumble, Thinglewart was alarmed
Chowder fell smack dab back into the tower
Bouncing off layers of foam, laughing, not even sour
To be continued? Well, we’ll see
Thinglewart’s a bit private you see
He doesn’t like unnecessary chatter
He says it’s not good for the bladder
He only talks after a wee bit of juice
Then his tongue, it comes loose.
Circuit Tree
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Flection
With each leaf a face of dryer future falls reflects the prolonged fixing and fiddling of limb and ground.
I step cautiously, hearing you beneath my shoe. Upon your spine, I search for strength.
Your breath crumples with a sound of what was and is to come; an aging, mingled with every smaller wobble of the globe.
Lovers never smile when they have fallen ,always look for spring as redemption until the rain disappears.
Wind carries your face adrift. Dust is never far.
If my blood could wake you, I would let you suckle my salty oil until bees’ lips turned red.
If my wet mouth quenched you, I would kiss you with sugar saliva until your skin revives.
But there’s so many who fell like me.
I can’t caress the world back to fresh buds or even hold it safe within my drying veins.
Flowers run rampant in the meadow. Beetles and caterpillars hang on for life.
I swear the swiftness of the planet’s spin sends petals flying.
Dry Thirst
Once we were liquid
Entangled, wrapped in grasps
Scared of the dry sunrise
In that morning
I heard the bath water
Small splashes…gingerly
The faucet became a trickle, then nothing. I was left with the creaks of the house.
Every now and then I run the water
For no apparent reason
Arc Eternal
Arc Eternal
Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator
‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth
Toward the leftover quiche
Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon
When sun meets to kiss moon—
And mustard, your yellows bold
A bit old, but still at play—
Mummified lime, plastic lined
Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—
Four salad dressings,
Daughters of the virgin oil—
Bright Wednesday’s sauce
Must find solace at all cost
Before the scourge of poisoned moss—
A couple of red jellies
To keep a merry belly
Harvested during the sweetness
Of His grand spring—
A dire few leaves of spinach
Must be eaten in a pinch
Or thrown into a stew anew
Cat food can, oh my love be content
Yet, small miracles abound
In these cool vestiges—for—
Behind the onion skins
And forgotten slice of apple
My hand moves with assured fate—
Look at what Providence hath left!
A cold beer is found no less!
O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.
The View
If I hike alone, I can only tell you what you missed.
If we hike together, we’ll see the view.
Here, the wind whips beachgrass, stinging our legs through cotton jeans, a grass that rattles its voice, a scolding, chaotic rustle. Our bare feet run across their roots to reach the soft sand.
There, we’ll see the side of the wind waves know, lulling us into a dreamer’s state, a duet with the flapping of our jackets, a rhythmic trance. We dig toes deep into sun-drenched sand, feeling the same heat, ‘til cooled by the night’s tide.
The grass settles into quiet view.
(Click on image to enlarge. More of Elan’s photos here.
Gilligan’s Soliloquy
TV or not to TV, that is the question
Whether ‘tis nobler for the stomach to suffer
The future of outrageous coconut cream pies
Or take bad dialogue from character actors
And by opposing, end them, and get cancelled after three seasons
To flee, to fly
To be rescued? We say the end to
The heartache, and the thousand bad jokes
That television is heir to, ‘tis a consummation (hopefully)
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to get canned, to sleep,
Perchance there are reruns?
Ay, there’s the rub
For in that cancellation and reruns, paychecks may come
When we have shuffled off our bad wardrobe
And should give the Skipper pause? There’s the respect
Who makes calamity of typecasting
Who would bear the whips and scorns of reruns?
The reviewer’s wrong, the insulting abuse
The pangs of being despised, or loved, and fan websites
The insolence of the network, and the spurns
The patient merry of th’ unworthy takes (over and over and over. Hey, this isn’t Shakespeare!)
When he, (that’s me,Gilligan) might his quietus make
With bare contract, burdens and little cash
Clueless and sweating under a weary L.A. set
But that the dread of cancelation
That rediscovered country of joblessness
Typecast emerges, puzzles, the agent
And makes us rather bear those ills of doing info-ads late at night (or candy bar ads in the afternoon)
Than to fly to others, like mom and dad, asking for money
Thus conscience, does make cowards of us all
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er the entire cast of Gilligan’s Island
Our enterprises, of great pitch and moment
With this regard our currents run awry
And lose the name of “action” — soft you now
The fair Ginger and Mary Ann, nymphs of my hammock
Be all my sins remembered
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