|Ruth Wildes Schuler||UNSTABLE
the hall clock
and I shut my eyes
against the passing of time.
the inner sockets,
but decongestive capsules
long ago drained
my tear-ducts dry.
I look out of my
dirty window Ė
A screaming blue jay
drives a flock of Oregon
not seeing my old cat
crouched in spring.
Somewhere a Greek chorus
chants in the recesses
of my unconsciousness,
while Freud tries to convince them
stallions are a symbolic
metaphor for sex.
They agree Ė
What chance have I?
|PONDERING THIS POETíS PLACE IN
Been reading Dylan Thomasí
biography, which seriously set me
to thinking about the horrible possibility
of people reading MY letters twenty-five
years from now.
Canít you just see it?
Latest gynecology appointment,
abscess on my catís head, I read
THE ORIGINS OF BRITISH GENETICS
last week, and a book on the probable
ASSASSINATION OF GENERAL PATTON
two days ago. Oh yes, all the intellectual foresight
is there, laid bare for future generations to see.
The sex life of raccoons in my back yard,
I might get my hair cut tomorrow.
Is our economic collapse ever curable?
My head is whirring with potential jewels
like hamburgers for dinner if we donít
have hot dogs. Washing machine
and car both broke down today, the second
obviously in sympathy with the first.
More rejections this week, and though Al Capone
was sent to Alcatraz for not paying his income tax,
it now seem to a prerequisite for appointment
to our new presidentís cabinet.
Let me tell you, if reincarnation is a reality,
then Iím coming back on the release date
of my biography. I can hardly wait to see the drama,
intrigue, and poetic insights put together
by some literary genius in regard
to yours truly, a weary housewife with bad feet,
two senile cats and the ability to see doom
and gloom hanging over each day that I survive.
Poet Thomas Ė your life was like
water down the sink, writing letters
about mundane things like love
poetry and drink.
More over, Dear Dylan, itís about time
To let this here REAL poet
Stand in line.