Four Unsavory Parables for the M11

   
I.   Neil's Little Black Book.
 
The numbers. Names, in waiting.
A terracotta army locked in notes
on mood and personality.  Denatured,
to preference.  Performance, rated
for distance and readiness regardless
the hour.  Gathered from chat rooms.
Their tiny novellas pimping fictions.
Fleshed out in pictures of washboard
stomachs advertising the will
to beat linens clean off of you
whenever you might call.
 
 
II.   The Sound of The Rain.
 
The sound of rain.
Of lightning. Hail.
The hands of thousands,
clapping fans.  And, then,
the coils of jets, drawn
still as though making
a landfall, and no one need
fly the plane.  As if
amidst the unseen, silence
filled the body like air
leading to the lungs until
it pushed out all else,
and, out of body came
the sound of engines, droning
back to life as from waking
and weary remains of dream.
To the sound of thousands.
Like the sound of rain.
 
 
III.   Sin Qua Non.
 
"Nothing has never been
discovered, found, or
uncovered."  He wages:
Nothing lost is
everything else.
 
And, so, he strides in.  Sailing.
A great ship in his navy whites.
He fancies himself in mirrors.
 
 
IV.   Golf Course of the Brown Fields.
 
Wastelands.  Summer's reeds,
skeletal on the borders.
Stilted husks drained
of reserve, busted, broken,
bent over the margins.
 
Then he approaches:
Stortford man.  His golfing shoes
clawing the ground.  Pants
so green, the lawn blushes.
His partner, the Bishop,
is winning with a hat-trick.
He's already scored
three holes in one.  Stortford man
notes: the swagger of his steps.
 
 
 
 
(The quote in Sin Qua Non is from S.F.  Nothing else here is ... so I'm not going to tell you who S.F. is.)